Space junk
by planet p
Summary: AU; set during season six. Meg and her human are having a bad day. Castiel/Meg, Jo/Crowley... Chapter Five is plain mental. Sorry, all. Chapter Six, pretty much just as mental. Ugh! **I do plan to re-write this; when I get a plan together.**
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the lyrics used in this story. Other people do, I just don't know who.

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><p>Today, she doesn't want to be Meg. She wants to be someone else, some<em>thing<em> else.

No, that's not strictly true. These feelings she's having, they are all her, all Meg, but they're so unlike her that they upend her, they feel foreign, strange, sickly, and she knows she shouldn't let them in, shouldn't want to let them take her over the way they have once too many times before. If she could be someone else, she imagines she'd be perfectly entitled to feel what she wanted to feel; if she was someone else, they wouldn't be out of place, out of character. They wouldn't be unforgivable or forgivable, they just would be what they were. Simply. Feelings.

But she doesn't have feelings like this. Not Meg. These are the sorts of feelings she works every day to eradicate, like some people – humans – work on staying fit, on staying off the junk food. For her, feelings like these _are_ junky! They make her ill, unfit; they mess her up and make her _ugly_. For her – a demon – she can't even begin to let them seep in, because if she does, she'll drown in them, and it will hurt and she'll be betraying everything she is and it'll be such a big cop-out she can't even let herself think of it happening – ever.

Except for right now, that's exactly what she's thinking. She stands alone, contemplating her personal disaster, ruminating over the Self Destruct button she's itching to push, just within reach if she leans forward that teensy bit, sucks up her pride, her oversized ego, and takes the plunge.

She shouldn't want to press that button, but she does. It's infuriating, maddening, and tantalising all at once. The feeling is a little like tumbling, an endless tumbling, and she wants to be ill and laugh, and laugh. And as she's thinking this, she realises something, realises what she really wants to do.

It feels like being punched in the stomach, or possibly ripped to shreds by Hell hounds.

A hand comes up and fingers press to her lips but they're not soft or warm, her lips or the touch of her fingers, and her fingers don't make her lips tingle. Instead, there's a tiny blossoming feeling in her chest, a feeling, she thinks, disgustingly like longing. At first, the feeling is minute, and so, so soft, but very soon its grown by leaps and bounds and it actually has her doubling over, wondering – wildly – if she's dying. Though she knows she isn't, it's just been a long time. A long time since she's felt anything like this with any meaning, remotely approaching real.

She savours the emotional pain, and, to her mind, it translates partly as physical pain, but that's okay too. Okay because it's something to feel, something to remind her she's alive. At least, partly. In a way. Not just the body she's inhabiting, but Meg. (Even if that isn't her name.) She's alive!

She loves that. Even though she should hate it, detest it, despise it. Want to smite it. She loves feeling _something_! It's such a thrill. An old thrill, but a good one.

Inside of her – inside of _her_, Meg – something is slowly taking shape, is growing. The thought excites her and terrifies her all at once. The heart in this body she is "borrowing" thuds harder and she smiles, still doubled over in agonising pain, her fingers slipping from her lips and colliding with teeth, though she doesn't care. She wants to laugh, to really, really laugh.

So she does.

She doesn't think about the strange sight she must present, to any onlookers who might chance to pass by; she couldn't care less what anyone else was thinking. She's totally and wholly wrapped up in her own world.

The pain screaming silently through her body isn't borne of old memories, from her "human" days; rather, from centuries of conditioning. She may be a demon; her soul may be corrupted, but it's whole, in one piece. She's not a Dalek; she hasn't been fashioned for one purpose and one purpose alone. That's just the company line, and she knows it.

The pain should be a deterrent against such feelings, but it isn't. Not today. Today, she remembers the small, soft feeling she'd felt inside that night. So small and fragile, yet full of yearning and hope and gladness; just happy to have one moment, one fraction of a moment to live, to know, to be aware. To share.

There are tears in her eyes, suddenly, but they don't disgust her, they don't turn her blood cold. She hasn't felt beautiful for so long – practically forever – but that little cotton wool-soft feeling, it makes her feel beautiful – makes her think of little things; tiny, wee things that will grow up to be bigger, stronger things – and she thinks that that is exactly how it was with that tiny feeling inside. She knows it could have grown, if she'd let it, and now here it is, back again. It hasn't died. As if it could, barely larger than a breath, barely more concrete than an idea. It's back and it's brought tears to her eyes.

It isn't what she would have expected. It isn't remotely like the urge to push her cart, to force her will onto another, to dominate, maim, destroy, to hurt, to make pain-pain-excruciating-pain! She remembers that night, and how it had made her feel beautiful, how it had opened her mind to the idea of that, of beautiful, special (different-worthwhile) things, how it had given her such strength, such resolve, and even though she hadn't been certain she would live another day, by gosh, she had _wanted_ to! She'd wanted to live!

And all because of a silly kiss.

It was laughable, and wasn't she laughing? Laughing through her tears, tears of joy, not pain.

It wasn't greedy, the feeling, it just wanted to live. It was a part of her; it was perfectly happy to live on her terms, by her rules. It didn't want to take over, it just wanted to make itself known, to throw out the occasional suggestion for thought now and again. And oh, it had been so happy, so thrilled, at that kiss! It had _loved_ that moment! And she hadn't been thinking, 'I want it! Give it to me now or I'll take it by force. I'll grab and claw and rip and hurt!' She'd been thinking, 'I feel nice. I think I could get used to this, as long as you could, too.' For once, she'd actually wanted to _share_ something, and it didn't involve pain or screaming or a single denigrating, scathing commentary.

She'd felt beautiful and worthwhile and she'd wanted to share that feeling – and of course, she'd immediately pushed it away, she'd immediately made up a thousand different reasons for feeling what she'd felt, a thousand different feelings she'd rather it have been, if she'd been feeling herself, if she'd been a _good_ demon. And yes, she was a demon. But, just possibly, underneath, she was something else, too. Just possibly, underneath, she was just another soul, like anyone else (human, monster, angel, demon or in-between). Everything that lived had a soul, the _but_ came on the words like 'awareness' and 'accessibility' and 'Could I flaming care less?'

Could she care less? For one crazy, wonderful, insane moment, she had. She'd felt something, deep down in her soul, a real connection, and she'd cared; she'd cared about it, and dared to hope for it. And then she'd crushed it. 'Stupid demon. Stupid, stupid. Clever demon. You were so busy fooling that simpleton angel that you went right on and fooled yourself along with him. How awesome are you? Mind you, a little focus couldn't hurt. You, anyway. Ha-ha! Mind you, snap to it, soldier! Stay flippin' on form, hot cakes!'

She'd gone into it to win, with two sneaky hands and a pair of lying lips, barely believing that she might but knowing that the only way she would possibly – _could_ possibly – get through it was by believing in herself, even if she had to lie through every single one of her unhappy host's teeth, but, mystery of mysteries, she'd come out with something else instead. She didn't just need to live, just need to want to live, she _wanted_ to live. She _needed_ to live, because she couldn't face the idea of not living any longer. Not because she was a soldier and a soldier's work was never done and a soldier was never done until there was no need for them anymore, but because she suddenly had had something to live for, something to look forward to. And even now, even now when it kills her, she doesn't entirely hate it. To the contrary, in her current crazy state of mind, she can fully imagine that she loves it. To the moon and back, even.

It hurts – and she loves it. 'How like a demon,' she thinks, and the fear doesn't seep in along with the beautiful, insane terror; the fear that it might flee, abandon her, or just up and die. She doesn't think it will ever die, no matter how hard she pushes it down and tries to deny it, to pretend it doesn't exist.

It will all come rushing back, the second she lays her eyes on her enemy again, and she'll be hard-pressed not to smile, remembering that awful, _awful_ comment he'd made that had actually made her want to laugh – which, under the circumstances, hellaciously crazy – then turn a serious look on the Winchester boys and grill them for a translation. She doesn't exactly speak Angel, but then, when had angels ever spoken Human? She has a feeling Angel Human and Demon Human aren't exactly interchangeable; they're completely different dialects, in fact.

She could kid herself and pretend she wanted to know in the interest of reliability, but that's not strictly true. The real reason she wants to know is something else entirely, and one answer, or one question, would never be anywhere near enough. She knows what the human would call it, but she doesn't think she wants to admit to knowing, in actuality. She wants to know more, she wants to get to know Castiel – an _angel_, uck! – but demons don't work like that. The only time they want to know more is when they can hang it over your head for a while then quietly wrap it around your neck and choke you to death with it. This isn't like that. This is wholly un-demon-like.

A couple of weeks ago, she would have said wholly un-Meg-like, but she isn't so sure now, because there's a part of her she's just seeing for the first time in a long time (if in forever) and no matter how hard she tries, she can't unsee it. (Just like she can't un-kiss Castiel. Or write it off as a point in her favour – zero points for Cas, annoying, meddling angel (as if there's any other kind) – and forget all about it.)

A couple of weeks ago, she'd have been frightened out of her wits by what she feels today, but today, well... she's down with it. She imagines it makes her feel warmer, even with those awful, God ugly tears pouring down "her" face, and maybe – just maybe – it does.

Crazy thought, but it makes the heart in her chest leap, wondering exactly the same thing she is, she imagines. Am I just going crazy, imagining things, or is it real? Can I be beautiful and warm, or am I just what I've almost always been? A malicious, cold-hearted killing, torturing, tormenting machine? And then – and this thought she shares with the little not-painful heating sensation in her lips – she wonders who she could possibly, possibly ask to help her find out?

Who indeed?

She can't help from smiling then.

.

Walking through an empty supermarket at night, the bright, artificial lights doing nothing for the healthiness of her complexion, see hears a song over the radio that makes her want to cry. It's a silly human song, "I'm Yours" by The Script, but it hurts all the same. Hell, even Ruby was Sam's for a while, and Sam was hers. But she is the machine, the soldier. She's Dean Winchester some eighteen months earlier, but less. She doesn't even have a little brother she can throw all her love at, no matter how unhealthy it may be. She has brothers and sisters but no family. She is what she is expected to be, she isn't cared for. She is what is needed, what is required. She is respected, she is appreciated, but those are all just words, and those words could be anyone else, if she was gone tomorrow.

Her heart aches and she hates it for doing so. It isn't her host's heart, it's hers. Her invisible heart, emotional heart, her stupid, silly, sentimental soul. It likes to make a fool of her, she suspects. It's okay with this, with her being a demon, at least, for a while. It doesn't up and die, just fizzle away into nothingness, and then it goes and does this: stabs her in the back and twists with a Ruby-esque grin of satisfaction.

Why does she have to be anybody else's? Isn't how things are now enough? Bad enough, hard enough? The constant on and on, the hardly ever moments to catch her breath, to rearrange her thoughts? The clouded "picture", the one-sighted judgement, tunnel vision? Being a demon, being one of the family, it _owns_ her. Why does she want more of the same? But something tells her this would be different, something tells her she's long been missing out on something good. Good for her.

She doesn't know what to think, what to feel. She's a _demon_, for Hell's sake! She doesn't want these things her heart wants, not at all. But perhaps that's a lie. The hardest part to swallow, she thinks, is _who_ she wants.

If everyone is, underneath, fundamentally the same (yet unique), then it makes sense, but she can't accept this, as much as she realises she can't discount it. In this life, what her heart may or may not want just isn't – and can never be – permitted! They're sworn enemies; she doesn't even know what she feels, what she feels for him, what he feels for her? How can start something in the middle of this mess, this forever-raging battle? How can they take each other's side over that of their brethren, their kin? They could never take on the world and win? Just to imagine the scenario would surely make them traitors.

All of these thoughts rushing through her mind are making her dizzy. She stops to rest her head against a cool, hard wall. She needs time to think, to _stop_ thinking. She _can't_ be having these thoughts. She wonders if that damn angel poisoned her somehow!

She's not angry. She walked into that one of her own free will. She thought she'd be clever and she got her own back. They are both soldiers; every day is war. There is not downtime. She's not even angry at herself, but it annoys her, it upsets her. Why can't she control this, these thoughts; these feelings?

She can't blame this body; it goes deeper. She's having a real crisis and she's suddenly frightened their pawns in someone else's game. Not that they aren't already, but they've long given in, they'd long given their assent, but this feels bigger, worse. This feels like it could be bad. She almost wishes she believed in reincarnation. If she did, she might have been consoled that they'd known each other in another life and this feeling was merely an extension of that – a subconscious reaction they had no notion of on the concious level – she could almost be comforted by the fact that, essentially, she was only being screwed by _herself_, but the sinking feeling in her soul told her this wasn't anything like that. It didn't even feel like it was down to anyone else's interference, but that was the kindest (easiest) explanation. That way, she could still hate Cas, could hate whoever was behind this shit, but if it was just her, then... she didn't know what she was going to do.

She doesn't want it to be that.

She turns around, pressing her back to the wall, and feels the cold seeping into her bones. She slides down the wall and sits on the floor. It's as hard as the wall. The suffocating feeling inside tells her she wishes she'd turfed that shiny angelic stake and let those damn Hell hounds rip her to squelchy, bloody ribbons. She should have known you could never trust shiny things.

She doesn't want to feel this way about the enemy and yet she does – and that's the worst part of all.

He is not a demon, he's not her family, he's never done a single thing to deserve her gratitude; she's not in IOU to him, so why this? She cannot allow herself to buy that whole we're-all-living-things story. How _can_ she? Even if it's true, she cannot be that, cannot abandon her cause like that. And let the angels win? Let them slaughter her family? Why should she give up her world in favour of some crazy angel's, just because she has this crazy feeling that they could share something special? She knows the danger and that she's got to fight; she can't give in, no matter how badly she might want to. Sure, everyone deserves one good thing in life, but this cannot be her one good thing. Castiel cannot be her one good thing, and she cannot be his one good thing. She couldn't even do that to an enemy.

She's not Ruby. She can talk and she can even dispense the occasional glance or even a kiss or two, but she'd never go any further than that. Love is not a luxury she can afford, not something she could suffer. The only love she can have is borrowed love, borrowed dreams, borrowed ambitions to keep her hoping for the future, believing in something. She is a demon, she knows her place. She talks a good game but she knows her lot in life. She had her life as a human and now this is her life. What business does she have messing with an angel? She's more alike to Sam and Dean than Castiel, truth be told. She just can't allow herself to string herself along on some fool's game, herself or another. She doesn't have a whole lot of compunction, a whole lot of boundaries in the way or right and wrong, but she has a few, and she sticks by them religiously. Without them, she wouldn't be worthy of even _this_ life.

If she didn't have something to believe in, something she stood for, to stand by, she'd gank _herself_! And she doesn't believe in messing with Love. Cherubs may believe themselves something special when it came to love but really, she didn't believe they had a clue. Love – true love – was a mystery deeper than life, wider than the vast ocean universe, more beguiling and mysterious than starlight, moonlight, full daylight. It could only be shared by two people and it could live or die by a single glance, a single breath or beat of the heart. It was black magic, voodoo, wondrous, spectacular, downright miserable; it was in a class of its own, it took the world and turned it upside down, shook out a few specks of that and dusted a few sprinkles of that over the top for good measure. It was the only thing in the universe besides life and death that was indelible, unbreakable, next to hate, and weren't they crazy cosmic cousins, in the end? And she was _not_ game to play with that flame. The fires of Hell paled in comparison. Emotions like that were weapons of mass destruction waiting to happen, and they shattered more lives than anybody ever anticipated, needed or wanted.

They were frightening!

And she didn't want them. Now that they'd come knocking at her door, she wanted to pull on her coat and pop out back, make some cheap excuse, excuse her absence on work. It was only a temporary fix, a Band-Aid for a gaping wound, but it was the best she could muster. She couldn't give in. She wasn't _that_ kind of monster!

So here she is, crying her eyes out again, and all over something that doesn't even mean anything really. She just knows Cas had already put it behind him, blamed it on a "moment", on her demonic voodoo, anything. She wishes she could do the same, but there's only one person she wishes were here right now and it's not cute. It's not comforting.

She wonders if she should "accidentally" stumble upon the Winchesters and Ruby's witchily-imbued knife. Maybe they'd save her the trouble of all this confusion at a relatively cheap rate; a few short insults exchanged, a few comments that cut a little close to home – she had a whole host of topics just dying to be unearthed: Daddy, Mommy, Jess, and that new one, Lisa, and her spawn, Ben; Gramps – it wouldn't take much. Yes, she'd be a traitor. She'd not only be a bitch but a _mega_ bitch. Selfish, stupid, but she'd be saving herself from becoming this monster she wasn't. Maybe, shudder, she'd even be saving Castiel the same thing. The guy was a freakin' angel. When she died, people would slag out her memory once or twice, then they'd move on to the next thing. But Cas, he'd be letting down all of his people. They'd play it up real good, make a big stir. The dissing would never end. Hell, he'd never live it down (even in death). If she knew anything, she knew that angels could be asses when they really wanted to be. She'd learnt that wholesome titbit from the best, and heck, the guy wasn't even the same as her. He was an angel, like the rest of that lot. They'd turfed him out but he could hardly change what he was. He couldn't look beneath the surface and see how they were all the same. He believed himself something special. What would he know about the real world. On a whim, in a mighty big hissy fit, he'd decided to create his own "better" world, his own way of doing things, and he'd really done a bang-up job. He'd done what they always did: competition and conflict over co-operation, consideration and compassion. Always did it, human, non-human, demon or angel. If there'd ever been anyone out there who could have saved him from himself, he'd completely ignored them.

And hell, she was one of his kind, one of his children (in a way), and so that was what she would do to. She would shed a tear or two and then she'd find old comforts, reasons to live, to go on. She'd take hold on hatred and agony, she'd take hold of all those monsterful things, and run like hell.

Who was she to defy convention? Who was she to take the untamed path? Who was she to see outside of the box? She was just a demon, a soldier; just Meg. She was nothing like Castiel. She was nobody's saviour.

She could barely even keep her head above water.

She may have been crazy but even she can see, that angel is unravelling, fast. She doesn't want a piece of that pie. Rationally, she wants to get the hell out of that scene. She wants to hide her hands in her pockets and keep her eyes down. She doesn't even want to dream of whispering in a dream, "I'm with you."

She wants to be Meg, old Meg. Meg she recognises; Meg she doesn't mind hating because that's what demons do best, with glee and relish, even. She wants to be anything but this sobbing mess. She sees the future and wishes she could close her eyes and wait for it to pass, to just pass.

Someone's going to fall and she doesn't want it to be her.

If she had a time machine; if she could bribe an angel, she'd have one of them feathery ninnies go back in time and bonk her on the head, anything to stop her from kissing that bloody angel.

She wipes a hand over her face, her eyes darkening impossibly. The radio is now playing Sarah Connor's "Cold As Ice". She shoots to her feet, stalking away. Damn that song! "Go to Hell!" she spits.

What was with these humans and their obsession with love? Bloody mental! If they were so big on the love theme, why were they so eager to strike out in anger and hate? Why were they so intolerant, why were their fuses so short? Why couldn't they just _love_? But no: take, take, take! Love wasn't about taking, it was about giving. Giving in to some crazy feeling inside people called love, and if you were real lucky, someone else decided they'd love you back, you got a little love to replace that you'd given away. You couldn't _take_ love by force!

And stupidly, you couldn't donate it to the universe at large. She'd have done so, if she could. She'd have given this crazy feeling she had away and washed her hands of it, but it was hers to deal with, hers to suffer through.

She stomps out of the supermarket, slamming the door after her. The alarm goes off and blasts in her ears but she ignores it completely, heading off down the footpath.

Why can't she give it away, for Hell's sake? She doesn't want it. Maybe it would be good for that uppity angel, but coming from her it wouldn't! Why can't she give it to someone else? She's not even human anymore. She gets cool supernatural powers but she still has to deal with these scurvy emotions. It's badly thought out. It sucks! She'd have found some cutesy little virgin human girl to zap, if it worked that way, but it doesn't.

She feels like puking. That stupid Sarah Connor song keeps replaying itself in her mind: 'If I can't have you for the rest of my life, baby, my body's turning just cold as ice. Nothing I can do, if I'm losing you. It's getting just as cold as ice, cold as ice.'

She whimpers and picks up her feet, walking a little bit faster, as though she can outrun her thoughts.

.

She stops by the motel the Winchesters are staying at. They're asleep. For one moment, she considers purposefully falling over something so they'll wake and discover her, then she drops the thought and settles on the edge of the bed next to Sam. She watches him sleeping, wondering what he's dreaming about. Does he still dream about Ruby or that Jess girl he had? Does he dream about Heaven or Hell or just happier times with his family: Mom and Dad, lil Deanie? Does he wish he hadn't plugged Samuel? Maybe he has a "happy place".

She touches his hair, half hoping he'll wake and off her with Ruby's knife. She's not sure, of course, but she bets he likes to hold onto it; not just for security, but because it's probably the one good thing Ruby ever did, coming up with that thing, from the Winchesters' point of view.

She leans down to smell Sam's hair as though that could possibly help her understand this love thing. She's well aware of how much Dean loves Sam but she's not sure she could ever give herself up to something like that. It seems like too much, even for a sibling or blood relative. After all, she has her doubts when it comes to buying that Dean even loves _himself_, yet her loves Sam. Is it just his way of punishing himself, or is it his way of loving himself, by loving others? If so, it doesn't seem like the best of plans. Barely a few months ago, Sam was ready to sacrifice him to a bunch of vamps. Real nice, loving thing to do. But then, Dean would say: 'Shit, girl, that was Sam without a soul. That was postal Sam. Weren't my Sam, sister; my Sammy's got my back.' He'd have a million and one excuses. They'd hate each other, then they wouldn't. Then they would, then they wouldn't. They only had each other and they'd always forgive each other, in the end.

She closes her eyes and refrains from stating the obvious. Yeah, they'd had a load of chances to get themselves something better but they'd turned them all down. Dean gave up Lisa and Ben. He always chooses Sam; Sam, and the Life.

So shouldn't she be doing the same thing? Choosing the Life? It's the respectable thing to do, the _right_ thing to do, in the eyes of her own kind. In the eyes of anyone, she thinks, if they knew her story as she did. They'd say, 'Stick up for you and your own. Be a good solider, don't stray. Fight. Don't stop until you're dead.'

Fight? Fight whom, fight for what? She doesn't know what to think anymore. She knows what she _should_ do, which side she should choose, but things aren't as cut and dried as they once seemed. Merely knowing is not enough. She longs to feel again, or just to feel _nothing_.

"Sam," she whispers. Then more loudly, "Sa-"

Sam blinks and squints into the dark, sitting up and frowning at her. He doesn't go for his gun, a knife. "What's wrong?" he asks sleepily, instead. "Can't you sleep?"

"It's me," she says. "Meg."

"Right. You don't sleep." He starts humming a song she doesn't recognise, then something shifts in her memories and it starts to become familiar. She's forgotten that she once possessed Sam; that perhaps he knows things about her she doesn't even remember herself. He's a well spooky boy, always has been.

She chastises herself for forgetting that. Stupid demon.

Sam starts to lose track of the tune he's humming he forcibly opens his eyes. "Feel better now?"

She doesn't but she doesn't know what to say. Does Sam think he's dreaming or has he taken something? Pills? By rights, he should have killed her by now.

He leans over and hugs her, rubbing her arm for a moment. "It's not so bad," he says, in a language she hasn't heard spoken in a long, long time. Her old language. He can't possibly know what he's just said, but she almost feels comforted.

When he goes back to sleep, she stands up and looks for the pills. She doesn't find anything stronger than the typical meds people keep around. If there's anything doing, it's hiding out in the Impala. She decides to give up her hunt and stops by Dean's bed, slouching slightly. She almost says something, then changes her mind. Suddenly, she doesn't much feel like giving anything away. If Dean wakes up and kills her, Sam will figure out that his dream wasn't that much of a dream after all, and she's not entirely comfortable with that.

Sam is supposed to hate her, he's not supposed to talk to her like that. Like she's a real person. She should have been offended, she supposes, but she isn't. She figures, if she even feels like it, she can do something shitty that'll piss the boys off then smartly swoop in for the kill. Sam won't even feel bad about killing her then, even if he had that demonic turn a while ago. He probably hates himself for that, she thinks. Thinks he was a freak. He won't feel bad for her, he just has weird dreams. Fuckin' weird dreams.

She leaves the room exactly as she found it and resists the crazy urge to wish them "sweet dreams". They're not her kids and she'll probably never be a mother.

.

She doesn't mean to but she falls asleep waiting for the bus. She has no reason to be waiting for the bus, but she doesn't even care. She imagines that she's tired so she sits down; next thing, her eyes have closed and when she opens them again, it's daylight.

The sunlight is weak, not warm-bright, and there's a nippiness to the air. She likes this time of the day, she decides. The world is still carving itself out of the darkness, making itself solid again for the day; everything is that bit fluid, just a little bit mutable, magical. It's the time of the day when you think anything's possible: 'Today's the day I change, today's the day I make a change, positive change. I can do it; I'm going to do it.' At this time of the day, before the sun gets to any height in the sky, it's so easy to think the best, and then real life kicks in, and kicks you in the teeth, on principle alone. Quit dreamin' your life away!

She tells herself she's not pessimistic, just realistic. Demons can't be pessimistic, can they? Why should they be? They've got cool-O supernatural powers!

She rubs the back of her neck and gets to her feet, heading off down the path for the nearest diner. She needs a coffee, or her meat suit does. It's feeling a bit sluggish.

.

Stifling a yawn – she blames Sam; if he hadn't reminded her of all that being human crap – she almost bowls someone over coming into the diner, and grabs their arms to steady herself. She's about to suggest they invest in a pair of glasses sarcastically when she sees who it is and seriously considers taking a dive out the nearest window, even if that is the Winchesters' forte and slightly cliche.

She quickly lets go of Castiel's arms and glares at him. "What is this, a frickin' convention? First the Winchesters, and now you, Feathers?"

Castiel meets her glare with one of his own, eyes narrowed, but she isn't really up for that game. She's too tired to out-glare anyone. Damn Sam, and damn _her_ for being such a gullible fool!

"Look, Crazy," she says, "step outta the way. I'm attempting to get through here, if you hadn't deduced as much. I'm not exactly Kitty What's-'er-face. Why are you just standing there like a damn fool?"

"Why are you?" Castiel counters.

She paints a smile onto her face and reckons she has a way to get him outta her face. "Now I'm in love, I'm in love with a wonderful guy; that's what's the matter with me. Well, I'm in love, I'm in love with a wonderful guy, but he don't care about me." Seeing the nonplussed expression on his face, she prods him in the shoulder and mutters darkly, "Robot. Any regular guy woulda laughed at that. What's your excuse?"

"What is yours?"

She rolls her eyes. "Hardy, freakin' ha!"

"You know very well I am not a 'regular guy'."

"Regular troublemaker, though. Don't deny it, Cas. Everybody knows your number. We might as well call you Harry James."

Cas doesn't say anything and she thinks he's probably plotting some way to smite her without anyone noticing. He could do it too, she's sure, but damn it, can't she even have a coffee first! Isn't there any courtesy left in the world?

A loud pop song comes on over the speakers and she grins. "Woot! This song _rocks_!" She expects that'll get Castiel out the door, but nothing doing. He stays right where he is.

Meg doesn't actually know the lyrics so she just laughs long enough to catch onto the melody and hum along. "Is there something you wanted to say to me?" she asks, at last. "Do tell, Frowny Face." She amends, "Scowly Face."

A young woman glares at them for blocking the way and Meg steps out of her way, taking a seat at one of the tables nearby. Castiel sits down across from her and goes on scowling at her silently. She almost rubs her hands and flashes him a grin. Oh the excitement! If he thinks that's going to get to her, he's got another thing coming.

The song changes and she gags involuntarily, listening to the lyrics: 'And baby, you're all that I want. When you're lying here in my arms, I'm finding it hard to believe. We're in Heaven!' She puts a hand up to cover her mouth, glowering at him over her fingers. "Freakish, garish humans!" she spits. "Disoriented monkeys with exactly _nil_ fashion sense!" She tosses her head in Cas's direction. "I'm not some frickin' telepath, you know. If you've got something to say, spit it out or leave me a message in my inbox. Aw, yeah, I forgot; you don't have my _number_. Shucks for you! I ain't gonna give you i-" She growls. "I swear, if I hear _one_ more song about Heaven – I'm gonna throw myself under a bus!" She stands up swiftly and walks to the counter, ordering herself a coffee and one for Cas, just to peeve him off.

She walks slowly back to the table, sitting down and slumping in her seat. She closes her eyes tiredly and repeats what Sam told her in the motel: "It's not so bad." To be honest, it sounded better coming from Sammy. She puts out a hand, smoothing her palm on the tabletop, just to wake her up a bit. It's cool and, surprisingly, quite clean. She'd expected it to be greasy or sticky, but it's neither. She wants to open her eyes and stare at it funnily, but she really is tired.

Maybe it was Sam, or that soap of his, or maybe it's some angel mojo Castiel has decided to trial on her, but whatever it is, it's effective. She's too tired to move. She doesn't bother opening her eyes to glare at anyone, too tired. Someone puts their hand over hers but she doesn't care. She stops hearing the sounds of the diner, and even the song playing and retreats into unconsciousness.

She dreams about a kite of bright colours, wending its way high up in the blue, blue sky. She's lying on the cool, green grass, watching the kite dance on its wispy tether. It moves like a fish in a small bowl. It turns one way, and then the other. The cool of the grass seeps through the fabric of her clothes, cooling her back. She can hear someone talking quietly in the distance but she's watching the kite, mesmerised. She doesn't take any notice of the voice.

She watches the kite high up in that dreamy blue sky, until the kite vanishes, along with its bold, rainbow colours and the blue of the sky. The sky isn't blue anymore, it's not even the sky. She's indoors, face down on the floor. She feels cold and the floor is hard. She recognises the song playing over the radio, she's been here before. The smell is familiar, too. The supermarket.

She scrambles about and picks herself up off the floor and that's when she realises she's not alone. She's not the only demon in town.

She's on her feet and up and kicking butt, but something's on her mind, troubling her. The other demons are good. There's four of them and only one of her. She nearly ends up iced a couple of times but she's quick, quick and whippet-slim. Her meat suit knows how to dodge and weave. It's a definite plus.

One of the demons catches her out and stabs something into her back, digging it in good before giving it a sharp twist. She screams with the pain. A shiver of panic floods her meat suit but she forges on, knowing she's got little all choice if she wants to stick around, and soon she's back to ass whooping. She's not going to die here tonight.

When she's dealt with the last demon she stops for a breath, but breathing seems harder than usual so she tries not to breathe too deeply. The radio is still playing but she ignores it. She leaves the demons' meat suits lying scattered on the floor with their blood, stepping over one and crossing to the registers. She walks around the barrier and stoops down, offering her hand to the young woman curled into an upright ball and huddling in the corner, shivering. Meg's hands are mucky but they don't shake at all. "They can't hurt you now," she tells the girl. "They're dead, I promise."

The girl's eyes widen in terror but she takes Meg's hand. According to her nametag, the girl's name is Aaron. Aaron straightens out and gains unsteady feet. Meg asks about the security cameras and Aaron takes her to the room.

When she's trashed the footage, Meg leaves the room, telling the girl to call the cops. She doesn't see the demon straight away. When she does, it's too late. She manages to shove the girl out of the way, to the floor, but the demon ends up shooting her in Aaron's place. She stumbles and grabs the gun off the guy, turning the weapon on him. She shoots him in the centre of the forehead and spins about, surveying the scene for evidence of danger. The girl's eyes are streaming with tears. Meg gauges that she has a broken wrist. It must have happened in the fall.

She goes to find salt. She doesn't quite know why the demons want this girl, she just knows she's not going to let them win that easily. Any plan of Crowley's is a plan she'd be more than eager to see go awry. They're not gonna have the girl on her watch.

She's very nearly got the place secure, but there are an unholy heck of a lot of windows. She's almost got them all done, but not quite, when the back-up arrives. She fights but she's worn out, slow. There's a tiresome tussle and when she finally breaks free, she sees they've got Aaron. They actually open their mouths to offer the ultimatum: she can go on fighting but then they'll have to waste the girl. If she gives up now they'll let the girl live – and they'll let her go.

She's ready to tell them to go to Hell when she catches Aaron's eyes. They're bright and full of terror. "I don't want to die!" Aaron pleads.

Meg stares at the girl, wishing she had a gun on her so she could waste her herself, put a bullet right between her eyes and end her torment. She doesn't know what Crowley wants with the kid but it can't be anything good, she knows that much without having to ask a single question.

She watches the demons make off with the girl. When they get to the door, one of them turns around and shoots her again, for good measure. She collapses to the floor.

When she wakes, everything is a little hazy. She's unbelievably cold. She stumbles about, looking for something to tell her something, anything, more about the girl, but all she has is a name that probably isn't even her name – a practical joker co-worker's name, most likely. She finds a jacket in one of the employee-only rooms and pulls it on. It doesn't do much for the cold but it's better than nothing, then she makes her way to the exit.

She stumbles and falls, banging her knees hard on the floor. She feels shitty. Too shitty to be alive. She'd ditch this meat suit if there was any hope of getting the girl back from Crowley's creepy clutches, but there isn't really. It's a failed venture and an absolute waste of time. She doesn't even bother. She sits against the wall and feels tears on her face. She blacks out for a while, whilst she's sitting there, and wakes to feel ever more bone-weary.

She makes it to her feet and leaves the store, not even glaring at the useless alarm system when she triggers it. The alarm hits her with head-splitting force but she doesn't flinch. She feels so woozy as she slinks away into the dark.

.

After passing out in the diner, she wakes up in a motel room she doesn't recognise. She frowns at the ceiling, feeling a little out of it still. Her head can't decide if it would rather swim or pound and settles on a terrible, Jefferson Starship-worthy compromise.

She's kind of glad Dean isn't her boy, just at that moment. She'd nearly cracked up when she'd heard what he'd named those hybrid monsters. He totally sucks at naming things. She's witty with undertones of biting sarcasm. Well, she usually is. Not so much today. But today hasn't been one of her better days.

As she's thinking about it groggily, she thinks she wouldn't really mind if Sam and Dean were hers. She hasn't any children, she'd be glad just to have something. She could even overlook their professions, she thinks. For humans, they might be total screw-ups but their hearts are in the right place. Mostly. For a while, Sam's was AWOL or missing or locked up.

Her eyes drift closed again and she zones out, the blackness returning to greet her. She doesn't understand why she's being so obstinate, why she doesn't just leave this meat suit. It's clearly knackered. It's just that she's sentimental; she's gotten fond of it. Or maybe it's something Crowley cooked up. Some messed over voodoo. It doesn't matter. At least she won't die alone; she'll still have her meat suit to hold her hand. Figuratively speaking, anyway.

.

The next time she regains conciousness, at least partway, it is to the sound of soft chanting. She doesn't know what the words mean but they don't sound awkward, as the angels' invocations often do. They are melodic and rhythmic and they send her right back off to sleep. She tries to fight, but the weariness and peacefulness – an odd combination, she is sure – is stronger and it wins out in the end.

She can't even fight it.

When she wakes again, she is alone. Alone, but better. She doesn't argue.

.

She's given up going after that maniac Crowley for the time being. She decides to follow the Winchester boys around for a bit instead. She always forgets just how tall Sam is, when he's not up in her face, but following them around, she can see how it might be a mite awkward for him. It's not too often, but he still sometimes bangs his head on things, as though he's still adjusting to being himself again, whole again. It doesn't seem to bother him, as she knew it would bother he were she in his place, but he's obviously got other things on his mind.

He hates that Dean is so dejected, she can tell. Hates the things he'd done when he'd been soulless Sam, but he sticks around, and never once thinks of running, like he had the first time they'd met, back when she'd been mousy masquerading as blonde, when she'd had a thing for cranberry-coloured jackets and cooing, sickly sweet tones, back when she'd been with Meg, the _real_ Meg.

Her name isn't really Meg, it's just what people call her, and right now, she'd rather be Mog any day. Mog has all the fun, it seems, and she has none. She sips her electric green slushie, watching the boys chat about a job they're doing from her safe, anonymous vantage point, and doesn't even mind the taste. She'd only gotten the thing for her meat suit. It (she) likes apple. The boys might well be looking for Crowley themselves, but she's not interested in that loco git, the ex-Fergus What's-his-face. The next time she sees him, she's going to make a real concerted effort to rip his throat out with her bare teeth, but right now, she's just relaxing, catching up on her favourite anytime soap, The Winchesters, thinking about how it's a pity that Gwen Campbell chick's gone. If she were still alive, Meg wouldn't have minded having her as her new meat suit.

She's in a brunette mood, she supposes, and Gwen did have a couple of good angry faces she's sure would have ticked off Crowley just slightly. She'd had an honest face, one that if and when she was angry at you, she was really angry at you, not just messing with your head. Meg could have put the poor girl's scowling to good use. Besides that, if the girl had been getting around as her meat suit, maybe she wouldn't have been kaput right now. Dean had to be fairly pissed at himself for offing a sister, a fellow hunter _and_ a second cousin, especially seeing as Gwen had given a damn, unlike Samuel, it seemed.

But Dean wasn't good at expressing his feelings, just like she isn't. She'd rather tell herself she's being a baby than admit they have some merit, that maybe they're valid. As long as she's okay right now, she doesn't have to think about nearly dying. As long as she's okay right now, she doesn't have to relocating to a new meat suit, or the fact that she's stuck in this one. Even if Gwen had been around, she wouldn't be able to have her anyway. Seacrest was still working on _breaking_ out, and none of Castiel's angel healing rituals seemed to have had a helpful clause in the way of This way to the exit.

She tries not to let it get to her, not to panic. If she lets herself give in to the panic she feels, then that's four or five nails in her coffin right there. She simply can't afford to.

Later, she's rolling her eyes at Sam's utter and complete geek skills, trying to figure out the word that'll fit to Eleven Down, when Sam narrows his eyes and scribbles something into the crossword. She pokes her tongue out at him but Sam doesn't see. They're sitting in the library and Dean's talking quietly on the phone with Bobby. Meg's bored; she wants to get up and go look for a book, but she's stuck here now. She can't exactly be parading around in front of the Winchesters when they're the ones with Ruby's knife. Still, she has the urge to tell Sam to get back to work and give it up with the boring crossword, but when Dean comes over he doesn't seem to mind, as though the crossword's actually important. Ugh! Sam tells him something quietly and they gather up their things and head for the exit, but Meg stays where she is, wondering why some lame crossword is so important but thinking it's probably something to do with the case and some psychotic human.

She only wants to know because she's dead bored.

Mooching on over to the table they'd been sitting at before, she sits down in Sam's chair and rests her elbows on the table, sighing and planting her chin in her hands. When she takes her chin out of her hands and straightens up, running her hands along the table edge, that's when she finds the Post-it Sam had stuck on the underside of the table. She unsticks it easily and turns it over. The writing is cramped but understandable:

You might as well stop following us, Meg, or do something! I'm not just going to kill you for the hell of it; that wouldn't be very sporting. Whatever mess you're mixed up in, that woman you're wearing has a mouth – put it to good use. If you change your mind and feel like dropping the 's', my number's on the back.

Stalking, talking. Right, she thinks. Funny. Very funny, Sammy. She looks on the back for the number and crumples the Post-it up, stowing it away in a pocket of her jacket. She doesn't think she'll be changing her mind, but maybe it'll come in handy some time.

Sam is more observant than she gives him credit, it kinda gives her the creeps. She wonders if he can sense her, in some strange Sam-ish way, but then dismisses the idea. Too freaky.

With the Winchesters gone, she has nothing to do in the library so she hits the door. There's no reason for it, but the song just pops into her head so she sings along: "When you first meet her, there's nothing sweeter. She'll take your hand and lead you to a wonderland. That starts the game, my friend. The beginning of the end. When you meet Marianne, oh then I know you'll understand. 'Cause it's so easy to love her, it's so easy to want her. You gamble your love away – then with your heart you pay-ay-ay! You kiss her lips, it's true. You hold her close to you, then turn your back and she'll be gone with someone new..." She falls silent and wonders what's wrong with her. Why is she singing these nonsensical human songs?

"I hardly ever thank the stars above for sending me your very precious love. You'll never hear me say a prayer; a thanks to someone way up there who gave me such a lucky break. Oh no, darling! Only with every breath I take."

It's the meat suit; has to be. She doesn't _know_ these songs. It's got designs on her demonic powers and it's planning a coup. She's suddenly overtaken with the urge to throttle Crowley. She just _knows _he's behind this crap. When she finds him, she is going to _murder_ him!

It isn't until she finds herself strolling through a park she has no idea she'd walked into when the thought occurs to her. Talk to someone, Sam had suggested. Maybe it was time she did that. She stops and closes her eyes. She doesn't know how inclined an angel will be to listen to a demon, but she figures it's worth a shot. "Castiel, if you're not too busy," she laughs at her own hilarious stupidity, "I'd like a word." Then, just for good measure, she wiggles her nose.

Opening her eyes, she glances around her. The place is just as deserted as before. So much for angels and their famous forgiveness, or whatever it is everybody raves about. Their angelicness! She tries out a game of invisible hopscotch and stops, jumps back around to the way she'd come and leans back sharply, eyes widening in her face. She's about to topple over and land ungracefully on her bottom, but Castiel grabs her arm and offers a serious frown. "You've got exactly two minutes, Meg," he tells her frostily.

He lets go of her arm once she's found her footing once more and she shrugs, as if to shake off the gesture. She hadn't needed his help. "I'm stuck," she says, then wonders if it's altogether smart to be telling an angel this, an enemy her weaknesses. "In this body," she goes on, finally. "I'm stuck in this body. This isn't your doing, is it?"

"It is not," he replied simply, just as frostily as before.

She leans closer and peers into his vessel's blue eyes. "Are you sure, angel?" she asks.

"I am sure," he growls.

"Charmed," she replies. "So, any ideas on how to exit this meat suit, Feathers?"

"None."

"Now you're just saying that," she says. "You're ticked off at me for calling you Feathers, you pompous scamp. Don't know what the problem is. Not as though it's not true. Come on! Give me _something_, at least! I can't stay in this sack of bones forever. What do you say, have some sport, chap?"

"I have never heard of anything similar happening before," he replies testily. "I have nothing to give you, _demon_!"

"Oh no, darling?"

"No."

She crosses her arms, annoyed. "Shit, well thanks for nothing, pal!"

"I am not your pal," he growls.

"We're both soldiers, doll," she replies. "We're practically BFFs."

"We are enemies," he corrects her darkly.

She pokes her tongue out at him dully. "So this sucks." She sighs, widens her eyes and leaps at him suddenly.

He steps back hurriedly.

She steps towards him, but he only steps back. She's trying to aggress him here and he's just not seeing it. He's supposed to be snappy on the uptake but she's just not seeing it. How more plainly does she have to make it? Is she really going to have to leap on him and start some scuffle and mess up her meat suit? Because Mousy was ever so pleased with the end results of that.

"If you're not going to kill me then at least take me to Crowley so I can kill _him_!" she growls. "He's the one behind this little practical joke, I'm sure! Tell me where he is, angel! It's high time the impetuous brat got what was coming to him! If I'm going to die anyway, why shouldn't I go down doing something enjoyable?"

"I do not know where Crowley is," Castiel tells her blankly.

She rolls her eyes. "Do you know _anything_?" She sees the flicker in his eyes and grabs his arm before he can zap himself off to a cloud someplace, tightening her grip as she leans closer, menace clear and dark in her eyes. "You're the one who stuffed up here, soldier!" she hisses. "Don't be petulant. It's not a good look for you. Where is he?"

"I will tell you what I have told you before, Meg: I do not know where Crowley is," Castiel replies. "You are the demon. He is _your_ brother. Try wasting someone else's time, for a change!"

She raises a hand to slap him but he catches her wrist, glaring at her. Throwing her wrist back at her, he disappears in a swish of wings. She glares fiercely at the empty space where he'd been standing not five seconds ago, knowing she's just screwed herself big-time.

The thought isn't a comforting one.

She takes out her phone and rings Sam. If Cas wasn't going to gank her, there was always the Winchesters, no matter what Sam said on some silly Post-it.

"I hate you!" she yells to thin air. "You suck!"

"Uh-oh," her phone says in Sam's distorted voice. "What did I do this time?"

"Not you, monkey," she snaps. "Wanna hear something ace?"


	2. Chapter 2

The fact is, she has heard of something like this happening, as has Castiel, but it just isn't possible under the parameters they're dealing with. She's not inside some building, she's not enclosed by four walls, she's out in the open, so how can any spell like that hold up? It just isn't possible.

"What if, ah... [laugh] Crowley made a deal with the soul of the body you're possessing?" Sam suggests, taking a sip of water from his glass. "He could have... cast the spell on your vessel..."

Meg's eyes widen and she looks at Dean as Sam thinks about that some more.

Dean makes a face and shrugs. "Why are you looking at me?"

"You gotta call Wings for me. He's pissed at me."

"Why would he be pissed at you, Margaret? I thought you guys were civil nowadays."

"Not so much," she replies evasively.

"Why don't we just gank you here and now?" Dean challenges.

"Oh, would you?"

Sam pats a hand in the air as though to say 'simmer down, everyone'. "No! Nobody's going to be ganking anyone."

Dean shoots him a funny look, the unspoken Why not? utterly clear in his eyes.

Sam looks at Meg. After a long moment, he sighs, reaching for his glass of water then changing his mind and dropping his hand. "What do you remember from before, when you were still human? Your name? Do you know-"

Her eyes darken. "Of course I know my name!" she snaps coldly. "Which, by the way, is none of your frickin' monkey-assed business!"

"Yet everybody calls you 'Meg'," Sam points out.

She makes a face. Ass! "So what? Who says my name _isn't_ Meg?"

Sam shakes his head. "Don't forget, Meg, you were inside _my_ body. We were room-mates. I heard how you responded to that name and it didn't ring true. It's an assumed alias, at best; not your real name."

She shrugs, feigning unconcern.

"You don't know your name, do you?"

Her eyes darken menacingly and she scowls. "Fuck off!"

"Yeah," Sam replies. "Guess your father wasn't big on answering questions. Maybe that's why you two fought so much."

"Shut up about my Dad, ape!"

"Lay off of my brother, bitch!" Dean snaps back, earning a death glare from the demon.

"I'm sorry," Sam replies, "but we have a connection. I didn't ask for you to possess me, if you recall. That was your own choice, Meg. If you couldn't handle the consequences then you shouldn't have done the deed. I didn't exactly _enjoy_ choking on you, you know. Not a real fan of the whole Pompeii scenario. I like _breathing_. Air, not your smoked barely-there behind."

She laughs falsely. "You're just jealous 'cause mine gets me places," her voice turns into a scowl, "and the only place yours gets you is in a whole lotta Hell." Winking at him, she smiles. "Literally, peachy pie. Mind the landing, I hear it can be rough on the meat suit."

Sam rubs a hand over his cheek sleepily. "I'm not even gonna rise to that, Meg. You wanna know why? I may not be a Prophet or psychic or anything like that, but I have a set of eyes on me, and I know trouble when I see it. And you and Cas: Trouble, girl." He waves a hand in the air. "There's something there that shouldn't be there. At least, not by your standards. They keep a tight leash on you guys in demon school, I should know. Hell, they proclaim to do self-love, but now we both know that's just self-elevating crap. Love isn't just about take, take, take. It's about give and take. If you really love yourself – and I'm not talking about, Hoo-wah, I'm the bomb, babe!, but _really_ – then you'll realise you can't just love _yourself_. Dean and I, we have eyes, and we've seen our fair share of relationships, even been through a couple ourselves, surprise of surprises. You and Cas... Hmm, think about it. Angels, demons; don't do romantic love." He crosses his arms. "So... what if that's the end game in all this."

"Oooo, I'm scared!" she coos sarcastically. "Do you see me trembling in my meat suit? Shit, somebody _hold_ me! I'm terrified. Horrified. I could just... melt into a puddle of _quivering bloody __terror_!" she growls. "Help!" She laughs, glaring at Sam first, then at Dean. "You're insane. The both of you! Mikey and Lucy really fucked you up, Sammy boy! And Hell, I don't even want to know about _you_!" she hisses Dean's way. "You and your entourage, Sam. Or should I say – space ship! You're off the planet! I'd never buy into something like that, you blind little fool! And an angel of the Lord! Ew! I don't think Daddy would like that much, do you? My Lord! Pff! They were mooks in mediaeval times and they're still mooks! And just so you know, I couldn't care less about that feathered freak!" She grins. "Hit me up with your Zippo, boys! Let's have us some angel kebabs. I'm starved!"

"Subtext much?" Sam comments lightly, not hardly bothered by her sarcastic attitude.

"Go to Hell, freak!" she hisses, eyes dark with rage.

"No really," Sam replies, in all seriousness, and a hard edge develops in his eyes. "You're the one who should go to Hell. You're the one I'm worried about, not Cas. Cas isn't in love with you-" she scoffs, snickering at that word, _love_ "-but I can't say I get the same vibes from you. Sorry, hon. If it's _not_ Type 1 Witchy Mischief, then I'm sorry to say, but," he shrugs, "it's _remotely_ possible it's all you. Cas, not a human. You, once. A long, long time ago, but all the same." He frowns, meeting her eyes with deadly seriousness. "Are you hearing what I'm saying here, Meg? I'm not trying to frighten you – yeah, ha-ha!; as if _I_ could, a mere _human_ – but maybe you _should_ be frightened! As much as I care for the guy, I'm telling you, don't go down that path. Cas will dump you on your ass faster than you can blink! Doesn't mean he's _bad_, just different. He doesn't equate emotions the same way we do, though I'm pretty sure you got that memo already. If he feels something for you, or that woman you're wearing, it's Hell-sure not love," he warns her. "It's..."

"Bowng-chica-bowng?" Dean puts in, and snickers. "Man, poor Cas!"

"Jerk!" Meg scowls, pointing a finger at them suddenly. "And you're wrong! Both of you fucktards! If either of you replay this crap for Castiel's benefit, I _will_ hurt you! You won't tell him anything!"

Dean bites his lip, nodding to the angel standing beside her, having literally appeared out of thin air.

"Tell me what?" Castiel asks, with a familiar frown.

Resisting the urge to jump back, away from him, Meg glares at him. "Shut up, Stuck-up! This is between these rabie-fied monkeys and me!"

Walking to the fridge, Sam takes out a jug of home-made lemonade and pours a glass, handing it to Cas before stowing the lemonade back in the refrigerator and closing the door. "We think Meg's vessel may have made a deal with Crowley."

Meg laughs and rolls her eyes. "I highly doubt that," she snaps, as though the very idea is far and beyond hilarious. Waaay out of orbit with hilarious!

"That would not be good," Castiel says, frowning at the glass of lemonade in his hands.

"Shut up!" Meg repeats.

Castiel shrugs nonchalantly, which only makes Meg glare at him even harder. He offers the lemonade to her.

"Bleh! You drink it, cupcake! Newsflash for you, Clarence: I'm stuck in this body, and as long as that continues to remain the case – I don't really relish the idea of _poisoning it to death_!" Glaring at him, she turns away from the three men in the room and pulls her shirt off over her head, turning her head to growl angrily over her shoulder, "What do you see?"

"You're not a California Girl, I'll say that," Sam tells her. "More like a Washington Girl, actually. You look anaemic."

"Thank you for that telling observation," Meg scowls darkly. "Not! And, for your information, Winchester, I wasn't asking _you_ – I was asking the angel on your shoulder! Your eyes just aren't quite as good! Do you have multi-realmic eyes? No, twerp – so _butt_ out! Unglue your googly eyes from my meat suit and go twiddle your thumbs or something whilst the _real_ professionals do their jobs!"

Sam frowns, scratching his eyebrow. "You've got a spot," he points, "right there."

"Smite me, bitch!" she growls. "And lay offa my spot! No, you can't have it – it's mine!" She pulls a face that looks slightly, if not more than slightly, garish, and hisses, "Freaktard!"

"Looks fine to me," Dean tells her, glancing at Castiel who is, to no-one's surprise, frowning in concentration.

Meg rolls her eyes and Castiel moves around her to frown at her some more from the front. "Oh, let me guess," she quips, "you've got exactly... balls! It's written in invisible ink. Ew, oops! Still, great – smashing! – excuse for a spot of gawking."

"Stop talking," Castiel tells her blankly, not even looking up to meet her eyes.

She glares at him like it doesn't matter, he doesn't get to her – gawking or not – but she can only hide her sudden tremor of doubt from the others, not from herself. Suddenly, she doesn't like a thing about this situation. Not a damn thing!

Abruptly, without so much as a sigh, Castiel drops the scarily intense frown and says, quite normally, "I see nothing."

Meg twists around and grabs the glass of lemonade he'd earlier discarded onto the kitchen table and flings it in his face. Afterwards, it's a moment before even she can think to do anything but stare. She really hadn't expected to snap like that, it had just... happened. Shit, she's just let her precious poker face 'tude slip and that is so uncool, and she probably should be running because Deano – It's a human... it's a pet! It's a human pet! – probably has one super-sized How dare you? look on his face right now.

"I think it's safe to say it's not poisonous," is all Cas says, even though she's expecting imminent smiting.

It doesn't happen.

"Girls, man!" Dean laughs awkwardly, but nobody, excepting the weird buzzing in everybody's heads that feels a lot like narrowly avoided nuclear fallout, laughs back.

When Bobby walks into his kitchen, nobody says "hey".

.

Meg gingerly bends down to retrieve her blouse from the floor, still wary of that smiting she was expecting hanging over her head, and pulls it on quickly, turning to glance at Bobby. "If you could point me in the direction of a mop..."

The older hunter merely shakes his head and leads the way.

She walks after him, glad for the chance to get away. She and Bobby don't have the best history, but right now, she'd prefer anything to Dean and Castiel. Sam, she has a feeling, would probably have cracked up if she'd turfed anything in his face, but Cas and Dean are another matter entirely. Sam is going through his Sammy phase, and she has a feeling he'd just about forgive anything, at this point, but Dean doesn't fall victim to childlike bouts and probably hasn't since the night his mother died and his perfect apple-pie-with-a-cherry-on-top life was shattered irrevocably from the ground up, no thanks to _her_ father!

Sam can just do crazy, in-your-face-but-surprisingly-not-offensive stupid-as-Hell affection; Dean cannot. At least, not with anyone but Sam. Then again, Sam has his flip-side, too, and it's not pretty. Dean likes to say he pushes everything down and only ever lets his true emotions out when he's hunting and getting mental drunk but Sammy's dark side is darker, and infinitely more frightening. The worst of it is, even Sammy can't get a handle on his dark side, even he doesn't know how to stem the tide once the bank has been breached and blood has been spilt. Dean does. So as much as she appreciates Sam's current you-can-fuck-me-over-and-I'll-still-love-you attitude, she can't get comfortable with it because she knows – as surely as anyone, as surely as Ruby discovered too late – very well the dangerous side effects. She knows very well that Sam can snap at any time, as easily as a twig underfoot. It doesn't even have to take much, just the right amount of pressure at the right time, or the wrong time, and Smack! It's done!

Dean and Sam love one another and always will – even when they're mad as Hell at each other, too – but the problem they face is that they don't love themselves, they can't let go. Their good intentions always stuff things up for them. Despite all the lessons they've been witness to, lived through, over the years, their old conditioning steps right back in the instant their insecurities rear their ugly head and they're snap-bang back on the road to Hell, to misery and misunderstanding that never need be. It's a sad thing, but it's not as though it's her problem. She's not their mom; she doesn't even give a damn.

With mop in hand, she returns to the kitchen to find Sam standing alone by the sink, leaning back against the draining board, apparently mulling over his thoughts. "What an idiot thing to do," she comments quietly, of her earlier outburst, and Sam's eyes snap to her face abruptly.

He shrugs a shoulder. "It happens to all of us, Meg."

In that moment, as he's looking into her eyes and there's not a trace of a scowl in his own funny greenish orbs, she feels a swell of impossible affection for this mad, mad boy, for his capacity to call her by her name without an ounce of negative inclination, and the way he can still look at her as though she's no different from him. Just a person, one of many but one of them all.

She honestly can't remember the last time she felt this way, but not in her wildest dreams would she imagine it would be Sam Winchester who would make her feel, at long last, as though she'd come home. As though Earth, this ground, dirt and mud, was somewhere she belonged, somewhere she could build a life, an Earthly existence, for herself, and just live.

But sometimes Sam just has that magic, and today he's let the glamour drop and there it is, warm and soft and utterly endearing. She feels bad for her dad, in that moment, taken in by this evil, evil – but so very loveable – human, only to lose everything in the end. Humans! She can only say one thing: They are a hundred – a _thousand_ – times worse than angels any day.

They make you believe, they sing such gorgeous, heart-raising songs, and then, just when you've got yourself in time and a few of your moves look halfway alright and you're drunk on pride at your awesome accomplishment, your talent and your fucking great luck at chancing to catch the right tune, this golden once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, they change beat and leave you standing for dead, your thoughts so all over the place that you can't even run, can't even dodge the final blow when it comes.

Poor Daddy, she thinks. Poor Ruby. Fools, the lot of them, but sad fools. Sad, sad fools. To fall for a human, for an impossible dream, for something that they, by nature, could never, ever have, even when they did, for one grand, fleeting moment.

She won't make the mistake they had. She won't be a victim, won't fall prey. She will reject this human affection, this damned affliction, and maybe she'll live to see another day.

It hurts, in its own way, to snap on her shades and pretend she never felt the glow of warmth radiating off Sam in soft, comfortable, comforting waves, but it is no less necessary. Maybe Dean can't fight it, but she's not Dean. Sam is not her baby brother. She doesn't even have a single reason why she should be the one to feel Sam's affection, the recipient of his dangerous regard – she never put herself in for that crazy lottery and she never, ever will, for as long as she lives. And if she's wrong, somehow, and she ever did put herself in line for it, she's breaking off all deals, all arrangements, and walking free. The only person she'd ever truly die for is herself, and even though she's a loyalist to her cause, she doesn't do it for Lucifer, she doesn't fight for anyone else but herself. Because she believes, deep down inside, that demons should have a chance to live as much as any fucking human or angel – that _she_ should have a chance to live – and if that means having to throw it all away, at some later stage, then why shouldn't she? Why shouldn't she do just that? If she can't live how she believes she has every right to, if she can't even represent, then what's the point in living in the first place?

Dean would understand. He would get it. The life he told himself he always wanted – the one he had, ever so briefly, as a child – always ends up escaping him in the end, but it's not the fruits of labour for which he fights, it's the principle. He doesn't expect to get anything back, not anything material, all he asks for is piece of mind, and that, to his mind, is as tangible as it gets. It's also as tangible as he can handle, as it turns out.

He'd throw it all away for Sam because he still believes Sam capable of what he is not – in a deep, dark, distant part of his subconscious – but he can't entrust that kind of faith in Lisa or Ben, as much as he loves them. He can't do that because he's still only looking at it from his angle, his own vantage point. Whenever he writes out the equation, it's from Dean's point of view. Dean is always factored in for; he can't give Lisa and Ben a shot of their own, can't relinquish his life to the workings of the universe completely. It's still about what I can grab, what I can hang on to. And what I should and shouldn't grab on to. In his mind, the material aspect one-ups the state-of-mind aspect.

But perhaps she doesn't give him enough credit, even if he did a stupid, seemingly selfish thing in whitewashing Lisa and Ben's memories of ever having known him. Perhaps he _does_ get it, but he knows they'd put up with all his shit and then some because of the dreaded curse, Love, and he can't allow himself to have afflicted them that way, so he had to find a way to lift the curse, to break the illness, to cure them, before they turned into the same half-thing he was. Only living half a life, and half a tragedy, so bogged down by the past and all of those old dreams that any new dreams that came along were scrubbed completely from their minds for the sake of sheer uncomfortablity and unfamiliarity.

Maybe he just didn't want the cycle to repeat ad naseum, she thinks, so he took it upon himself, as patient zero, to fix up a cure and administer. After all, after the spill they'd taken, the very near brush with their own fragile mortality, it had been something of an emergency situation, a do-or-die kind of thing.

She doesn't know, herself, what she would have done in his place, she only knows she never will be. She'll never let herself walk down that path, not even by any amount of wrong turnings.

Not ever.

Her father's dead; her brothers, dead. She doesn't need anything else to give meaning to her life but her job, her cause. She certainly doesn't need _love_ – romantic or otherwise!

And if that is the plan – her idiot meat suit and that even bigger idiot Crowley's plan – then fuck them! She's not going to play their game. She'll sooner die.

.

In a huffy mood, she goes and sits in the panic room, knowing full well she's probably not allowed and is just making a nuisance of herself, knowing full well she's just stepped into a devil's trap, but she hardly cares. She plants her butt down on the floor and crosses her legs, closing her eyes and just trying to block the whole world out, the whole universe out.

Castiel was lying. She knows it now. She bets he knows full well how to break Crowley's stupid spell – the git probably left instructions, a gleeful, manic smirk lighting up his face and all – she just figures Cas doesn't much want to go down that path, and he doesn't want to give her any little shred of impetus, any little temptation to, either. Maybe he's afraid that if she isn't the one to say "no", he won't be either. After all, he's getting around in that meat suit now. Good for nothing sties! The only thing they do well and consistently is bring shit raining down on everyone's heads; Hell fire, Heaven's wrath and everything in between.

She feels dirty just for _being_ in this ugly body, let alone for feeling anything through its contaminated, confounded senses.

She can just imagine the counter-curse, too. Distastefully. Bowng-chica-bowng. Only, it's never going to happen.

That's why she's sitting in here. It mightn't be spiteful monkey-proof, but it's angel-proof, and that's good enough for her right now.

In here, the human she's possessing can work on her all she likes, she's not getting out of this room and nobody who'd want to bust her out is getting in. Crowley can go to Hell, for all she cares. Or Heaven, the enemy's encampment. He's an ass and he won't be keeping his promise this time. He won't be getting this human's soul, no matter how dearly Meg would love for nothing more than exactly that. She's a bitch, apparently, or maybe that's just her just desserts for taking over the woman's body, but whatever, the chick's still a jerk. It's bloody not nice, not nice at all. She's a female, she should have more decorum, more loyalty to her gender, than to try to force something like this onto another woman, but maybe she just doesn't see her as a woman, Meg thinks. Maybe she only sees her as a monster playing dress-ups. How naive, how fucking cruelly ignorant.

Meg wants to backhand the woman herself. It's a pity she's wearing her face. And then she just doesn't care and does it anyway.

I don't love him, she thinks; I fucking hate him. I'd kill him if he offered me his angel dusting stake, but I don't think he's that desperate quite yet. Too bad. I'd enjoy dusting the winged creep. Hell, I'd be doing him a favour. He wouldn't have to lament over the confusion of it all a single second longer, he wouldn't have to suffer anymore. No more sessions at Control Freaks Anonymous, either. Uck!

She slaps her face again. That isn't even funny and just because she feels 'good' when he touches her doesn't mean a freaking thing. It's the meat suit, messing up her head, fracturing her loyalties. Having a corporeal form on this filthy plane of existence will do that to a fellow. She _knows_ that! She just has to keep fighting. Stay strong. Shit, if she really is that desperate she could fuck anyone. Just not that frickin' angel.

I bet you're just pining for him yourself, she thinks savagely, trying to piss her meat suit off, but the woman is silent inside her mind; it is only the bubble of laughter that erupts from her throat that gives away the meat suit's true feelings: Meg is losing, and isn't it just perfect?

.

Sam does have to be the one to find her, she thinks darkly, as he rushes forward and steps carelessly into the devil's trap with her, falling to his knees heavily and grasping her hands to stop her from hurting herself – and her useless, skanky meat suit – any more. He seems worried for no logical reason – she's a demon, after all – and she wants to hit him too, wants to tell him to fuck off.

She doesn't. She can't.

She's laughing and somehow she's crying too, at the same time, and she hurts – it all hurts – but Sam holds her close to him and she can't tell him to cut it out, to let go of her. He imagines himself as a friend whilst she's merrily – almost merrily – plotting away. If it has to be Sam she indulges in this deplorable act of betrayal with, then what the Hell? It's better than the alternative.

She simply will not stoop to that level, and it's not even about pride. It's about principle! Even the word 'rape', or even just 'forced', turns her stomach and she thinks she was wrong, so wrong. Crowley is even more fucked-up than she'd imagined, trying to foist something like that onto an _angel_! She's a _demon_, and even _she_ finds the notion intolerable.

She's a soldier, not a sex kitten, and the same goes for Castiel. He was never made to be someone's piece of sexy meat. The only games they play are war games, killing and hurt-making games. Hope-breaking and hope-building games. When they were first put together in the factory – or at least Cas was, and she was first inducted into demon school – they were handed a rule book, and they've lived by those rules ever since. They've conditioned themselves to _only_ live by those rules. To step outside of them even a _hair_ of a tiny, teensy little bit is a violation. Not just of the rules and the rule book itself, but of themselves! Is wrong! She's a bitch – Dean's absolutely right – but even she's not that big of a bitch. She's not wacky, floating-in-space bitch! War is a game with set rules, set engagements, and Crowley's little engender is not one of those rules. It is against the rules, and she slightly wants to throw up all over Sam just thinking about it, but then that would ruin it all. She has a strong feeling Sam could never even dream about the two of them shacking up together after that, so her opposition, her soul-deep disgust, will have to be a silent one.

It's a pity too, because the meat suit she's wearing would have been so ashamed, so embarrassed, all cry-eyed. A pity, she thinks dejectedly. What a bitch!

Releasing her, many long minutes later, Sam takes a knife and starts to scratch away at the floor, at the devil's trap, and even though the panic is enough to choke her, suffocate her, she knows she can't do anything. Her body doesn't know if it wants to be hot or cold, her throat is suddenly desert dry, but she can't do anything. Sam won't be fooled into this thing easily, and certainly not here, in this room, scrounging on the floor.

She's not just some demon bitch, she's a living being. She isn't, this very moment, doing wrong. For the time being, Sam can make an exception to his own book of rules. He can, yes, but she doesn't have that luxury, that liberty. They're Sam's rules, not hers, and for the time being she has to play along and hope like Hell she doesn't mess up.

The sound scratches into her brain – into her very soul, she thinks – but she steels herself and brushes the wet tears from her cheeks with shaking hands, careful to maintain the forlorn colouring of her face, the sad sparkle to her borrowed eyes.

It shouldn't matter to her. She doesn't love Castiel. It's not as though she'll be breaking any vows she's made, to him or her heart, by substituting Sam to take care of her unwanted desires. She's never harboured dreams of falling in love, herself. She's a demon, she could only fall in love with another demon, by rights. The problem is, she's never met any worth falling in love with. But Sam isn't so bad. It isn't really animal bestiality. She was human once too, as Sam is. It's not as though he's one of those icky angels, because that really would be going too far.

Jeez, _kissing_ the thing was bad enough. If she'd had any sense, she'd have found the closest tap and washed her mouth out, and if water wasn't an option, she'd have ripped someone's bloody throat out and washed it out with hot, sticky blood. Like something like that fazes a demon? She has a thousand answers ready for a thousand questions she's never even dreamt up, but she has them ready, just in case.

Just because they claim to be intelligent doesn't make them any less animals, any less a separate species entirely.

Just because her heart patters a little harder, a happy little skip to its step, whenever he's near, doesn't make a jot of difference. That's not love – that's some kinky shit she's going to get a freakin' expensive therapist to _rip_ out of her!

Just because the blue of his eyes looks eerily like the blue of the sky in her imaginings of Heaven, is beside the point. It's just a vessel.

She's sure _it_ wasn't exactly ecstatic over their little making out session. Hell, it probably managed, for a second or two, to pull itself away from stewing in its own misery to feel bad for _her_ meat suit, its cognate, a fellow inmate in her own private Hell, its 'sister'. Poor baby. Just thinking about it makes her want to gag. Filthy humans!

Yeah, she'd been one once too, but it had been a passing phase, and it hadn't lasted all that long anyway. All in all, it had been more like a preparatory stage, a stepping stone to brighter things, training space.

Just because-

Argh!

She decides to put her mind to other things, anything but that fallacy. What was it that song said? 'Only love can break a heart'. And wasn't that the bloody, gory truth!

.

She can't keep the sinister little smile from her lips, from her eyes, as she glances across the table at the angel sitting there. She's dry-eyed now and it's some hours later. The humans are taking dinner. She's actually trying to avoid looking at anyone's drink. She has the exciting urge to tip something wet and icky over that pompous tool's head but she knows she can't give in. In no way can she give in to associating any type of pleasure with that animal. Not even sadistic pleasure, sick pleasure or just plain mean pleasure. Pleasure has a way of tying itself in knots, she knows, and what was once committed for purely selfish, cruel reasons can sometimes morph into something else. Something _she_ doesn't want.

She wipes the smile off her face with difficulty and returns her attention to her plate. "Looks reasonable," she tells Bobby. "But looks can be deceiving. Is it edible?"

"What do you think?" he grouses, and she wonders if he's pissed at her for throwing his lemonade in Cas's face.

Oops.

Steering her devious mind away from making designs on that one too – she can't think of him touching her without remembering how he'd held her previous meat suit when it was dying – she redirects her eyes to her meal. She picks up her fork and stabs something, bringing it cautiously to her lips. Argh!

When she dies, in the end, nobody will hold her. Nobody will miss her. She chews the cauliflower and cheese concoction as though she's chomping on charcoal, or something worse, wasted monster ashes.

Shit, she doesn't want to think about this rubbish. Death, dying! It's even messing up her bloody appetite! Last time I get you something nice! she thinks meanly. No more apple slushie mucky drinks! She searches desperately for something to preoccupy her mind and digs out a few lines of an old song, lurid as it is: "Oh, I was only twenty-four hours from Tulsa! Ah, only one day away from your arms!"

Bobby looks around at her weirdly and she growls at him inhumanly. She pushes her plate away distastefully and stands up, kicking her chair over with her foot, away from her. It clatters loudly on the floor. This domestic shit is fucking _murdering_ her! She turns to him and holds out her hand. "Dance with me, grandpa?"

.

They dance in the overcrowded living room, to an old vinyl record, a slow waltz type thing, she supposes, wondering how it would feel to have someone hold her on her deathbed. Would there be despair? Would she pray for a different ending, tears heavy in her eyes? Would she resent the touch of another, resent it because soon, all too soon, it would be cruelly ripped from her? Or would she cherish it 'til her last breath?

Had she died a natural death, how would she have felt about the afterlife, the existence or lack thereof? Would she have embraced the end with peace in her heart, or turmoil?

Her mind spins question after question as they turn about, standing close together, moving in time with each other and the music, but she doesn't want any of them. She wants nothing, peaceful nothingness. She can't remember now if her father and her had ever danced.

She rests her head on Bobby's shoulder and lets the melody take her over, lets the hold of another absorb her. She hasn't been human for so, so long, but she still remembers how to do that.

And then, absurdly, even though she's weak and ill with despair, with desperation, a smile comes to warm her lips and turns them up prettily.

She didn't ask it to but it does so anyway, and she's glad it was one of those effortless things. She hasn't the energy, can't put in the effort, to stamp it dead.

She listens to the music and lets herself be led about someone else's living room floor to a song she knows none of the words to and couldn't care for, even if she did. She catches sight of Sam, standing by the door, in glancing, but she can't brush the smile from her lips though she's afraid it might make a mess of her plan for them. But Sam only smiles and turns about and walks out, unhurried, untroubled.

Later, as she's lying in a stranger's bed, alone, she'll scowl to herself and think, Pills. Bad pills – she won't allow herself to think the mistake her own. These things take time – but right now she is dancing, and when was the last time she did that?

.

The sound of sobbing, wretched sobbing, soft and dear at once, rouses her from her dreamless slumber. The dark is heavy on her mind, the mustiness clinging to every wall and available surface, quietly choking the life from the house, the zing of life.

Somebody needs to throw open a window once in a while.

She knows Bobby, Dean and Sam, human ears can't hear the sound, she knows who it is who is crying, and she doesn't want it. This abhorrent curse, this cursed spell, is her own to deal with. If she wanted to, she could turn up in his face and start a fight right now. She can still fight, she's not incapacitated! What should it bother an angel to kill a demon? The notion is pure absurdity.

Anger curls in her heart, all hard and sharp angles, blatant disgust at how pathetic the angel is. There's no way that a single kiss can have such power over someone, can change things so drastically. It's sheer madness!

She slips out of bed and marches to the door, in mind to start a fight and set that wretched animal straight on a couple of important points, remind him just who she is, just who kissed whom. And then she remembers he did kiss her back.

Damn fool that she is, she had merely assumed he'd take it as an insult, an affront, one more log to fuel the fires of his hatred of her kind, and yet, the damn fool that he is, he took something else entirely from it. She realises that this is on her. The bloody angel is crying and it's _her_ fault!

She didn't ask him to feel anything, yet she did give him the option, even if the possibility had never even crossed her mind, and now she feels _guilty_. She has to reap what she has sowed, has to own up to her actions and face the consequences – but, Hell, why does the stupid idiot have to heap this shit on her? Why do the Winchesters, those _pests_, insist on tormenting the fucking _animal_, on twisting it into something even minimally recognisable to their feeble human eyes? It is not a human! She's not a big advocate against animal cruelty but this takes the bloody cake. It's driving her _insane_! That repellent sound!

If it's even demonly possible, moving through the hallway in the dark, she swears she feels ashamed for ever having been human; for ever having been this rabidly _ignorant_.

The floor is cold against her bare feet but she doesn't even feel it. Her heart pounds boomingly loud, fuelling her dark anger.

What does she have to do? What the _hell_ does she have to do?

Her stomach flips over, all topsy-turvy, and her legs have started to shake, but she is resolute. She has to do something!

.

The thought actually occurs to her to chastise him, to hiss venomously, 'Stop that! You _snivelling_ _fool_! Get yourself a teddy and get _over_ it!', but how can she say that to an angel, to Clarence? She wants to pull his hair, to shout at him, to see the hurt in his eyes, so bright, so fresh, so delicious! She wants to make a mess of him, a real meal of his innumerable weaknesses, wants to show him how she's just so superior to him in _every_ way! Now that would be fun! That would be gorgeous!

But something stops her.

The feel of another's lips pressed to her own, the memory of that little feeling inside, of feeling beautiful, and she can't bear to regret it, to beat it down and deny it, to twist it into a thing of war, into a weapon for hurt and destruction.

It must mean to break her heart, that tiny kiss.

She can't sacrifice the memory to the fires of Hell, as she knows she should, she _must_, if she is to win in this battle between demonkind and angelkind. As hard as she rails, she just cannot bring herself to do it. This tiny, tender thing. This innocent thing. How can she do it? She's going to set the record straight between them, sure enough, but why does it have to go? Surely if she just delegates it to a different category, one that doesn't begin with W and sound like 'war' or 'weaponry', she can keep it? Such a small thing.

She knows how wrong it is of her to want to keep it, how wrong it is for her, as a soldier, to clutch it so tightly to her heart and find some solace in its presence there. It is a time bomb, waiting to go off and blast her to bits, but it's _hers_, and she loves it so. She is attached to it so. She knows she can never indulge it, never feed it, knows it must not grow. It is weak, as it is now, and she'll never do anything to grow it stronger, but she just can't face killing it.

Conflict tears at her. She knows she can't live two lives, can't live in both worlds, but why can't she? Just because it isn't written down, isn't in the rule book, does that mean she should automatically discard it to the four winds?

She approaches quietly, unsure of her next move, knowing that she's fallen prey to that little kiss already. She is a soldier, she should have a plan of attack, yet here she is, her head full of warring feelings and impossible notions, stumbling about in the dark.

Tears of incompetence sting her eyes but she can't let them through, she can't, under any circumstance, let them fall. Where is her head? Where is her sense? Has she gone completely mad?

One more step and she pauses. "Pst, Clarence! What is that horrific sound? I think my ears are bleeding. Cut it out, will you?"

"Go away," Castiel whispers, trying to sound angry but sadly failing.

She narrows her eyes in the dark and thinks that if she did have a teddy bear she'd throw it at him and hope it hurt. He is too pathetic. "Go away!" she mocks, sitting down beside him on the bed and glaring at him. "Suck it up, you big baby!" she hisses, reaching for his ear to give it a sharp tug. Maybe that'll piss him off enough to snap him out of it?

He slaps her hand away before she even has the chance. She makes a face but tells herself it's because he's a jerk and not because she's hurt, because she was trying to _help_ and he outright rejected her attempt, shot it down midway through. Didn't even _bother_ giving her a chance, the benefit of the doubt. She doesn't insult him. She can't insult him because she's pretending she isn't really hurt, so she twists her mouth in a smile.

"Clarence is a baby!" she teases, in an amused singsong voice. "Wah, wah, wah! Clarence is a little g-"

"Go away!"

The growl in his voice startles her and she growls back, barring her teeth with furiously flashing eyes, wishing she could just rip his throat out, or maybe an ear off. She has to hold herself back from leaping on him and going him, curling her hands into painful fists at her sides, the sting of fingernails digging into flesh making her hungry to rip, to sink her teeth into him and draw blood. Her mouth waters with the thought but she can't give in to the urge. She doesn't _want_ to die. She wants to live and fight. She wants to see his face when the Hell spawn win and his precious Heaven crumples and folds, when the Earth burns and screams.

Wickedness dances in her eyes, her teeth feel sharper than usual tonight, but since when has she wanted to see the Earth burn? Since when has she felt the need to blame the entire planet for the stupidity of God and his idiot children, those fools the angels? She can't work that one out but soon dismisses it as irrelevant. The humans are stupid, and Hell, are they _ever_ dim!

She cackles meanly, delight tinkling in her laughter. "Make me!" she hisses, leaning closer so he can get a good look at her wide, joyous eyes. There are no conveniently handy flames licking nearby to toss her to, if he wants rid of her he'll have to put in the effort and use his own two hands. Her eyes are manic, almost fanatical, and her heart beats so furiously it's hard to hear much of anything besides.

He doesn't bite.

She deflates inside. What's wrong with him anyway? She tilts her head, watching him intently for a moment, trying to figure out his angle. There's an angle, she knows it. There's always an angle with angels.

Castiel glares at her silently, not even tempted to speak, if his expression is anything to go by.

She is secretly ticked off that he hasn't risen to the bait, hasn't even bothered lifting a finger to point at the door firmly. Lazy shite! Suddenly hungry, she remembers that she hadn't eaten tea. That was his fault too. Pretending he was so cool, one of the gang. In league with the sniffy humans!

She lunges at him suddenly, the hungry pangs in her stomach urging her on, and hisses, opening her mouth to bite him, just a little bite. She wouldn't rip his throat out tonight. Her teeth are millimetres from his neck when she freezes, and gags. Argh! How can he smell so good? She wants to conk herself on the head and high-tail it out the door, but she can't move, frozen in place by a sudden uncomfortable twisting in her belly. Argh!

She reaches a hand for his shoulder and grips it tightly, forcing herself to retreat, to back away, just a few tiny inches. Her chest aches, her heart pleads with her not to do anything crazy, not to leap to her feet and run out. How can she turn away from the heavenly feelings being close to Castiel bring? Is she suffering some serious malady, an affliction of the mind and the senses?

She drags in a deep breath, almost choking on it in the process of doing so. The air is too much for her, too rich. She feels suddenly ill, suddenly like forcing it back out of her lungs, like clamping a hand over her mouth. No, no. She doesn't want more, she wants less. She wants none of it, nothing at all. She finds herself gripping Castiel's shoulders painfully tight and it's hard, so hard, to get her breath out. "Kill me!" she pleads.

He meets her gaze unblinkingly and she consoles herself by imagining he's considering her request. Clever angel, smart angel, kind angel. He has to know how torturous this is for her.

He lifts her chin with his fingers, contemplating the desperation of her dark, wild gaze.

She imagines he will be merciful and feels her eyes smart, tears of relief waiting to fall, to drip from happy, betraying eyes. "Yes," she encourages in breathy tones, "do it." It's so easy to look into his eyes, to let down her own guard and reveal her soul, now that she knows the final verdict, now that she knows she has nothing to fear.

It will be swift, it will not hurt. It will be over soon.

He places a steady hand to her forehead and her eyes brighten, rolling upwards for a moment. Her lips curl up in a happy smile and beam back at him. Such a good angel, she thinks. Clever and useful, not pathetic at all. Such an understanding creature.

Her arms are hanging limply by her sides now but she doesn't even remember her grip slackening, doesn't remember when she let go, when it was just his hands on her. She gives a tiny laugh and smiles wider, showing neat, clean teeth. She sees the angel's eyes watching her and thinks that he understands. She smiles so he will know she is thankful, thankful for his help.

Gazing into his eyes, she doesn't notice the way his chest is heaving. She doesn't hear the rapid beat of his heart, the fright living there, breathing the very same air he is breathing. She is too busy smiling, too busy being happy, relieved.

She can't feel the clamminess of his hand on her head, she never sees the desperate gleam of his eyes. The lighting is poorly at best. She doesn't sense that anything at all is wrong, is off, until his hand is no longer pressed to her head and the tears are shiny and bright in his eyes, making them plump and round, until his lips press against her own and steal the smile from her eyes.

Liar! Liar, betrayer! Traitor!

Anger freezes her lips, turning her body to stone. It is only the soft trickling of his hot tears down her cheeks that softens the blow, the strengthening anger, making round edges of sharp angles and points.

She tastes salt and sweetness, soft and warm on her lips. His heart beats close to her own as he holds her delicately in his arms. She can't breathe, but this time, she doesn't care. Her heart is so full of gladness that has suddenly come out of nowhere that she thinks it must be close to bursting, but nothing can touch her here, nothing can trouble her here, within his embrace. She is secretly thrilled beyond words, buoyed beyond her wildest dreams though she can't remember being sad, being desperate or down, she only knows she must respond, must reply to say Oh thank you. Thank you. Yes, of course you can. Of course we can be friends. Take my heart, here it is, in my hand. Have it and if you like it, give me something nice in return. Your heart will do just fine.


	3. Chapter 3

There is no talking, just the hushed whisper of breath. Sometimes their own, sometimes shared, with a gentle kiss. That is how it begins, with a soft but tender press of lips. Lips on lips, body heat mingling with body heat. Their movements are not always coordinated, but always beautiful, always essential. Meg's mouth singes beautifully, her lips full of pout and preciousness, as Castiel's lips combine with hers. Full of sadness, full of love. Trip the circuit and something changes. No more sadness, only eagerness. She is wanted, she is appreciated, she is ooh-la-_la_. Her heart patters in disbelief. Her? Wanted? Tenderness mixes with desire and burning passion. Nothing is like before; everything is like before, but different. New and improved. She wants to be wanted, she is pleased to be wanted; she could find satisfaction like this.

It's a strange feeling for Meg, that she can be wanted body _and_ soul, that someone could care what _she_ feels, not just what they feel. Strange but thrilling. She feels powerful in a way she hasn't felt before, she is acutely aware of the effect that each kiss from her lips elicits but she isn't lost in awe and wonder at her power, at her control. She'll throw it all away for a kiss in return.

Rationally, she knows this isn't love, it's infatuation, fascination, but it can grow, it can be more beautiful than either of them can imagine. She feels beautiful and right just to be held like this, just to feel Castiel's fingers in her hair. She doesn't wonder if she'd be better, if her kisses would taste sweeter, if she was blonde or ginger, she loves herself just the way she is. She loves herself because she is loved. She can't imagine being anywhere else but right here, at this moment.

She is weak and strong. Weak for Castiel's sweet kisses, strong enough to ask for another when the last has come to an end. She always asks again, with her own two lips. Without a single word uttered, she knows she is understood. It's a strange kind of telepathy, empathy. A strange entanglement. She's never loved strange more.

When her kisses venture from his lips, she feels so, _so_ bad. But there is no sting of shame, only a delicious anticipation, a buzzing excitement that travels at the speed of sensation, of impulses zooming here and there like invisible fireworks bursting underneath her skin. She kisses his neck and giggles bubble up and overflow, tumbling out like champagne from a just-opened bottle, and her hands, her strange, demanding, bad hands are doing all sorts of things she can't remember asking them to do, removing clothes and ghosting over skin, kissed trailing after. Off with the trench coat, one, two, three, there go those buttons. Four, five, and a couple more. Untuck it like this, oh wait, let's get that first. There, and now you're mine, all mine.

She presses kisses to shoulders, dispenses hugs, buries her face in his neck as her crazy giggles subside. Her hands are shaking so but they move through the air tug at the hem of her blouse, pulling it off over her head and dropping it over the side of the bed, to the floor. What else is there? Who cares?

She finds Castiel's hands and he helps her out with her bra. It feels so good not to have that thing digging into her skin, the straps too loose and then too tight, the underwire unmanageable and vice-like. But it's gone now and so is the nuisance and pain. It's not her body but somehow she feels freer, infinitely more honest. She shivers when Castiel slides a hand up her back, the other finding a resting place on one small hip. This body is boney, but fit. Tough in places, soft in others. It is a wonder and it's gonna be a trek, getting to know the lay of the land, but she senses the worth in the venture.

Castiel leans close and she loves the feel of his skin pressed up against hers; it's better by far than the scratchy, soothing scrape of freshly laundered clothes. It's tender and soft and full of chances to invoke desire, to indulge in closeness.

He takes a moment to smell her hair and she thinks he's so silly but that's okay. She's tingly and happy and catching her breath is harder than before. Her toes tingle on the carpet and she presses a single finger to Castiel's lips, straightening and standing to remove her jeans. They prove difficult, putting up something of a fight, but she perseveres. Never thought it would be so tricky undressing in the dark.

The rustle of fabric is beautiful, like colourful wrapping paper, whispering promises of good times that leave her hoping it's true, hoping it will be better than good, great. A hand touches her hip and she returns to the bed. Her back is lowered gently to the mattress. A thrill of excitement flashes through her as she recalls the first kiss they shared, the way his hands touched her wrists, her hands so sneaky, sneaky. Her back pressed against a hard unyielding wall, as cold as it was unresponsive, the dread and fear of their upcoming battle melting away. There is no battle to be waged now, no fight to be won. They are equals.

Heat simmers over her skin like a mirage across a desert plain, flames to an accelerant, but somehow the press of body to body isn't stifling, isn't depressing, but exciting, so very exciting, and at the same time comforting, loving. The sheet so smooth, so soft. They probably smell of washing powder, a familiar homely scent, but she doesn't want homely and familiar. She wants to try something new.

She may be reading more into it than is strictly necessary, seeing love where only lust exists, but she doesn't feel the bother of the thought; it only ever really skims underneath the surface of her conciousness, never really surfaces to make itself known.

Her heart beats so happily and her blood sings in her veins, the pull and push of air through her lungs something sensuous not tedious. She loves to hear the sound of rushed breathing, the catch of emotion and sensation in a gasped breath. She loves the act of sharing and how easy it is, she loves not being frightened at all, not being suspicious of another's touch. She likes herself so much more when Castiel likes her, when he holds her and kisses her and caresses her. She isn't regretful of all she's been missing out on, just glad they have this time to spend together, to have all of these wonderful things at last.

She wants to try so many things, be so many things: beautiful and sweet, soft and passionate, tempest and sweetly tortuous. She believes she can be, she can tonight, in these arms. She can be herself, high or low, and still love herself. The darkness is a friend because when the lights comes there will be so much more left to discover.

There are kisses and caresses, there is need and fulfilment, and more than that even. It's impossible not to feel it all, not to give in and come undone, not to shatter each and every time but somehow find herself magically whole again.

When she finally drifts off to sleep, snuggled closely to her favourite angel and so very content, she doesn't think about the war, she doesn't think about the consequences or the broken spell no longer holding her inside this body. Tonight, it is her body; tonight, she loves it from top to toe. It is a beautiful treasure just like her angel, and her silly feelings.

She goes happily off to sleep.

.

The hardest part of flying is coming back down to Earth, the hardest part of getting close is staying apart, as Meg discovers in the morning. She would stay right where she is, in Castiel's arms, if she could, but that's not the way it goes. Morning comes, the world winks and cheerfully cries "hello", bright as daylight, memories come flooding back. They must answer their callings, they must return once more to their roles, to being on opposites sides of this war.

She feels as though she's living in a town without pity, her heart aches and breaks and she doesn't even know why but she's not angry, she doesn't feel cheated, slighted, she'd never undo time to take back all the joys she discovered last night. She knows they'll have to go back to being enemies but she can't stop loving what they had, for a brief few hours.

She'll muster up a glare, a sarcastic repartee; she'll strike out, hit, punch, threaten this and that and her heart will glow, her toes will tingle remembering the feel of the carpet when she walked into her future boldly, with no fear. She will always remember she is much more than a mere machine of war and hatred and she will smile secretly inside. 'Until the we meet again' will be left unspoken upon her lips, but hidden in the depths of her eyes. She will always remember that they were not always enemies.

The morning sun brings starry warmth to bared flesh. Meg gently extricates herself from embracing arms, softly presses a kiss to sleeping lips, stoops to scourer the floor for discarded clothes. She dresses slowly but Castiel doesn't wake. He is so adorable she stops a while, holds off leaving, just to commit to memory the peaceful feeling of this room, this bloody gosh-awful decorated room and her sweetheart for a while, forever in her heart fondly. Then she quietly slips away into the dawn tide and reviving, cool morning air.

The ground crunches underfoot as she walks away from Singer's Garage and she smiles. "Bow-wow!"

.

"Cuckoo fled the nest," Dean reports, walking into the kitchen and meeting Cas's eyes for a brief moment before his attention is drawn by something else. He grabs Sam's coffee and drinks half, managing not to gag, and puts the cup back down on the table. Sam is definitely a caffeine addict, the coffee is both awful and much too strong for his taste. He doesn't pull a face, much; looks around for Sam, wonders if he's gone off to look for Meg, not of the pointy hat club.

Sam tromps in when Dean is checking out what's on offer in the fridge, picks up his coffee and takes a sip, looks at his cup strangely and shakes his head. Boy, he's alert today, he thinks, to not even remember downing half of his drink already. It's not exactly cute tasting, either. He's pretty sure he'd remember _that_.

Closing the fridge, Dean makes a face and nods at him. "How do you _drink_ that stuff, Sam? It's bleh!"

Sam drops his shoulders and shakes his head again. "Dean germs."

Dean laughs comically and crosses his arms. "Dean germs and ice-cream's okay but Dean germs and coffee is just unpalatable?"

"I have an unfortunate weakness for sweet things," Sam defends, and pulls a face. "Besides, I was _eight_, Dean!"

"Fourteen," Dean corrects, and walks over and ruffles up his hair. "It's all good, Sammy. My germs never killed you before."

Sam offers him the cup. "It's sorta... ewww."

"Pass, thanks," Dean replies. "I noticed."

Sam sighs heavily and closes his eyes, drinking the rest of it quickly before he can spit it back out. He shudders and rinses the cup out in the sink. "Your germs probably made it taste better," he says, with a shrug. "That is metropolitan branch library bad. Isn't Meg up yet?"

"She went bye-bye," Dean tells him.

"Aw." Sam frowns.

Dean cracks up. "You were so hoping to pass the coffee off on her, weren't you?"

"Sorta," Sam admits.

"You are evil, Sammy. Evil."

"I know, right?" Sam replies, and grins. He turns to Cas and scratches his cheek. "Do you want something to drink, Cas? A coffee?"

"Dare I risk it?"

"We'll borrow some of Bobby's coffee," Sam replies. "That's what it's there for. Yay? Nay?"

Dean catches his eye and smirks.

"Alright," Castiel sighs heavily. He can see Dean is hanging out for a cup but can't be bothered making it himself.

Sam nods, offers a frown. "Where do you think she's gone? You think she went to find Crowley and give him a piece of her mind?"

"Who can say?" Cas replies.

Sam rummages around in one of the cupboards for a couple of moments, shuts the door and looks in a different cupboard, finally coming up with what he'd been looking for and walking to the stove to retrieve the kettle. Standing at the sink to fill the kettle with water, he frowns and turns off the water, patting down his hair.

Dean laughs.

Sam rolls his eyes and returns to the stove with the kettle and sets it down to light the burner before moving it over to the lit burner. "Super."

Dean laughs again.

"You and coffee, man," Sam replies absently, watching the kettle on the flame.

Dean bites his lip not to laugh again and walks back to the fridge. He pulls open the door. "Hey-"

Sam sighs heavily and spins around. "Fine," he says, "I'll do it."

Dean grins. "You're the best, Sammy!"

"Super," Sam replies dully, then offers up a forced smile. "Ignore me, I'm a mope," he adds, walking over to look in the fridge with Dean. "Bacon, awesome."

Dean smiles at him happily, with exaggerated cuteness, scrunching up his nose.

"Dude," Sam tells him awkwardly, reaching for the eggs.

"Awesome," Dean says, retiring to the table to wait for breakfast. He glances at Cas. "Sleep any?" he asks.

"Some."

"Crappily," Sam says, from the sink where he's breaking eggs into a bowl sitting on the draining board.

"Hmm." Dean nods.

"Thank you, Meg," Sam mutters under his breath. "Now I have that song stuck in my head."

"What song is that?" Dean asks, out of interest.

"Twenty-Four Hours from Tulsa."

"Tulsa, eh?"

"Yep."

"Bet you can't-"

"Brat," Sam mutters, and begins humming the song.

Dean grins and makes a victory fist.

"You're happy this morning," Bobby says, finally showing up in the kitchen.

Sam frowns and glances at him. "Do you have parsley, per chance?"

Per chance, Dean mouths, giggling silently. Who says 'per chance'?

"I'll look," Bobby tells him, with half a shrug. He turns away to start his search and catches sight of Dean at the table. "What's going on, Dean?"

"I'm good," Dean replies.

Bobby shakes his head. Sure.

Dean points to Sam and mouths, Him. He did it. Disgustingly bad coffee! It nearly killed me! He draws a line over his throat, for emphasis.

The kettle starts to whistle and Sam leaves the sink to attend it, patting his hair again.

"Finicky, finicky," Dean teases.

"Blah, blah," Sam replies.

"Someone needs to get laid."

"Shit yes!"

Dean laughs, pointing a finger at him.

"I'm not arguing, dude," Sam replies. He hums "Only Love Can Break a Heart". "Give me a chance to make up for the harm I've done."

Dean smiles and volunteers the next line: "Try to forgive me, and let's keep the two of us one. Take it away, Sammy!"

"I forget the next bit," Sam admits lamely.

Dean laughs. "With me, munchkin: Please let me hold you, and love you, for always, and always. Only love can," [Sam joins in for this bit, a bit disjointed] "break a heart, only love can mend it agai-ai-ain. Only love can break a heart, only love can mend it again."

Scooping coffee grounds into the coffee plunger, Sam absently sings the song again from the beginning.

"Good times," Dean remarks quietly to the table. Yeah, Sammy had been going through a real jukebox's-are-cool phase then. Now that he remembers, Dean supposes Sam's musical taste has always been a little different from his. He smiles, thinking back to younger years.

"This look like parsley to you?" Bobby asks, returning from outside.

"Yeah. Thanks, Bobby." Sam smiles and takes the herbs to the sink to wash them under the tap. When he's done that, he chops it up and adds it to the seasoned, whisked egg mixture and takes the bowl of diced bacon and onion to the stove, retrieving the frying pan from the oven and setting it on the stove to heat up.

Bobby frowns at him, then looks to Dean. "Why's he making breakfast?"

"There was nothing in the fridge," Dean says.

Bobby nods but he doesn't drop the frown. Still, they might have popped by the shops and bought something as they usually did.

"Oh, I was only twenty-four hours from Tulsa."

Bobby refrains from moaning. It's a little early for all that, he thinks, wondering if Sam had been drinking the night before. He still seems slightly out of sorts, his usual gloominess nowhere to be seen.

Sam turns around, the bacon and onion sizzling in the pan now, and smiles at him. "There's coffee if you'd like, Bobby."

Bobby merely nods silently and makes to pour himself a cup, shooting a glance Dean's way but he's preoccupied with his own coffee and his thoughts and doesn't seem to notice. He notices that Castiel is his usual self and thinks that that, at least, is something to be thankful for. He's not sure whether Sam's strange behaviour is a bad thing or a good, but just in case, he's glad they haven't all lost their heads. If this is something to do with Sam getting his soul back and he's heading for trouble, it's good to know they might still be able to help.

For a moment, he thinks Cas looks more morose than pensive, then wonders why that should bother him. Of course he's going to be morose, there's a civil war going on in Heaven and they summoned him down here to help them help a demon none of them like and who's just done a disappearing act on them all. For all they know, she's back on Crowley's side and all Hell's about to come bursting in the door any minute.

Bobby hopes not, but whilst there's a moment, he thinks he'll have a coffee. To liven up a bit. The strange clash of emotions in the room is making him feel a bit woozy, a bit exhausted, and he decides it's probably best not to try and figure it out until after breakfast. Maybe Sam does have a good reason for feeling happy, maybe it's just because he much prefers being with friends and family than rotting in Hell. Heck, maybe he's just glad to have got their latest case wrapped up so swiftly and to have actually done some good. He's not soulless Sam anymore; maybe, just maybe, he's happy about that.

Bobby has to admit, Sam without a soul, not cute. If he'd been in Sam's place, he shudders to think how it all would have affected him when he remembered the things he'd done. But Sam seems to be holding up; 'seems to be' being the operative words. But Sam's strong, he has to believe that, and as long as he has something to give him purpose in life, he'll hang in there.

For a hunter, demons and angels trying to get the ball rolling on the Apocalypse once more seems like a pretty good reason to Bobby.

He has to admit, the scrambled egg isn't bad, either. Sam's cooking isn't all disastrous. He smiles to himself quietly, remembering something Sam had said when he'd been younger and thought he'd try his hand at baking cookies but had ended up baking cookie ashes instead: "Who staked my cookies? They weren't bad, I _swear_!"

Dean had been old enough to find the comment funny and had started laughing, but that had just started Sam crying and that had sorta spoiled the funniness anyway. It was funny now, thinking back on it, but trying to find a supermarket that was open on a Sunday afternoon to buy cookies hadn't been all that fun, in retrospect. Especially with a tearful Sam and his older brother just trying to cheer him up, even if it involved suffering through a whole tape of 'chick' tunes. Gladly, they'd found a gas station that was both open and which also stocked cookies.

Bobby had been relieved enough to laugh, but had refrained, in case it started Sam crying again.

Apparently Sam had taken the incident seriously and had decided he never wanted to go through that again, or else he didn't much fancy putting Dean through it, because he'd seriously brushed up on his culinary skills in the intervening years.

Or perhaps Jessica was a good cook and a good teacher, Bobby thinks. Maybe Sam's just lonely; maybe, even, that's why he talked them all into lending Meg a hand though she is, technically, the enemy. Whatever the reason, Bobby decides, that debt has got to be paid out by now. Even if they haven't found a way to break Crowley's spell – so-called spell – they've done enough by refraining from offing the demon on the spot. It's entirely possible, he thinks, that she figured something out herself. Perhaps, like Ruby, she'd been a witch too and knew a little something about witchy ways. Or maybe Cas had pointed her in the direction of a useful lead and now feels too ashamed to admit it. She is, after all, a demon, as is Crowley. He wonders if breaking the spell will involve killing anyone, but sincerely hopes not. Not just for the poor unfortunate on the receiving end of the killing part, but for Cas's sake, too.

He's not supposed to be encouraging the demons in their evil ways, or condoning them, even if it is to repay an old debt. The thing is, Bobby doesn't even get that. She wouldn't even have had a chance with those Hell hounds if she hadn't first swiped Cas's angel stake thingamajig, so it wasn't really as though they owed her anything for holding the demonic hordes off for a handful of moments. She'd have been dead without their help; in reality, it's _she_ who owes _them_, he thinks.

Still, tricking Meg into thinking they can be civil with a demon, perhaps it's all part of the plan to get to Crowley. Bobby sure hopes so. It's not as though he hasn't got it coming to him, Bobby thinks, because if anyone has, Crowley has.

He doubts anyone would even miss him.

.

Meg sits on the floor, her back to the hard tile wall, listening to the sounds outside the door for a moment or two, listening to the comings and goings in the roadhouse. She hasn't eaten anything; she just doesn't see the point. She can feel that the spell has been lifted, can feel that she's alone in here now, in this slab of walking, talking meat, and she can't bring herself to be relieved, can't bring herself to clamp down on the swiftly rising paranoia gnawing at her. She gets that the girl whose body she took over might have wanted her out, but why would she sell her soul to the Devil for this? It's not as though Crowley gave her a couple of years to enjoy having her own body back and all to herself; the second the spell was broken, he swooped in and claimed his earnings. Really, he hadn't even _done_ anything. He'd just put her in a massive imposition she'd have done just about anything to reverse, to avert, but then, he'd probably known that, too. He'd probably been counting on it to win him his precious little human soul.

All of a sudden, Meg feels disgusted with herself. If it had been her, if she'd had to go through what she'd put this girl through, the torture and horror and agony, maybe she'd be desperate enough to want to kill herself too. She feels disgusted for having been angry at the girl, for having hated her. She'd tried to fight, to regain control of her body, but she just hadn't been much of an opponent. She hadn't been nearly strong enough to oust a demon from her body.

How can Meg hate her for that? How can she, when the girl sacrificed her soul to the fires of Hell, to eternal damnation? Even if she's never done a single thing wrong in her life, she's going to Hell for it anyway, and Meg still has the choice of keeping her body now that she's gone, so what's the point? Where is her win in all of that loss?

What is the point?

And then it hits her: Maybe the girl hasn't stopped her, maybe she could dump this body in favour of another at the drop of a hat, but she has a choice now. She can leave this body and take over another's, or she can keep it and stick with it until it's no longer viable.

She was giving her a choice, Meg realises. She just didn't want to see anyone else hurt the way she'd gotten hurt, so she'd sacrificed her life for Meg's sake, so that she would have a meat suit to get around in and go about her evil deeds. She'd decided that dying – even dying a horrific, agonising death – wasn't as bad as living and having no control whatsoever over her actions. She'd wanted Meg to feel what she'd felt: the hopelessness, the horror and despair.

Poor girl, Meg thinks. She never even got that. Not really. Then she leans forward and tips her head back, her eyes going to the top of her head... and stops. Thinks for a moment. This body is hers now. Just hers. It lives because she lives. If she leaves it now, it will die. She won't be able to return to it then, it won't ever be beautiful again. It will just die. But right now, it's hers. It's hers and it's beautiful and it serves its purpose.

She doesn't have to leave it, even if she probably should, as one last Screw you! to the humans. Even if she should, for both the girl's sake and her own, because this body has been the girl's for so long that it _is_ her. It likes all the things she likes and gets irritable over the same things the girl would have gotten irritable over. It has been conditioned already and can never truly be Meg's, not really.

Meg thinks for a long moment. With the girl's soul gone, it is quieter. She is stronger. The girl's body may remember once being someone else's, but it can't fight her now, it can only offer up feelings, sensations, based on past experiences, and she can make new experiences for it to prefer, for it to suggest. She has a chance here she's not going to get again in a long, long time, and that's even if she survives much longer given everything that's happening. She has a chance to live, to be freer than she has been in so, so long.

It may be wrong, it may go against every rule in the demon handbook, but she hasn't yet erased the memory of her night spent with Castiel, when they were not enemies, not quite friends, but something else, something more.

She decides to stay.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>

Um, I forgot the name of Bobby's place. I know, I know. I _suck_ at sex scenes. It's painful. *g* Anyway, hope this chapter's okay; I'm still getting used to writing in the present tense, I usually prefer the past tense and keep wanting to go back to it. Okay, see ya! Have a good day an' all... :)


	4. Chapter 4

The young woman's eyes are full of uninhibited terror, glowing with barely contained tears – which, by the way, _very_ sexy – and he absolutely punch adores that she understands the very _real_ danger of the situation she finds herself in. Not so brave now, little girl, he thinks. And to think you were once such a brazen thing, so full of shizam, zizz, of devil may care. Funny that. Oh, fan-fuckin'-tastically hilarious! He's got to admit, it's a real riot, something of a highlight of his day, seeing her standing here before him all shivery with anticipation – or can it possibly, just possibly, be fear? – in her pale, too fragile meat suit, gory and all, oozing blood and what-have-you from the gaping wound in her middle, her blonde hair – not so much Dolly Parton and oatmeal as something else he's still putting a finger to – all shiny and straight, looking like it's just come out of a very serious session with a hair brush and quite possibly a straightener and half a dozen hair "care" products/chemicals with fancy schmancy names.

He has the ridiculous urge to reach over and stroke her hair gently, to feel its cool, just-washed silky smoothness underneath his fingers, to lean in and see what it smells of: a burnt-out, broken-down, liquor-tinged roadhouse or the gallons upon gallons of monster blood she _personally_, purposefully splattered herself with, in another life, like bloody perfume, or just some icky chemical residue from that not-so-appealing shampoo that had washed it off. He yearns to do just that, but his hands find her arms instead, slim, flimsy things, their bones hard underneath his tight grip, deceptively covered in soft clammy flesh like a cheap Christmas present cleverly disguised in fancy, shiny wrapping.

Not that he's complaining. He's always had a knack of turning dire situations in his favour, of seeing the upside in innumerable, myriad down-looking situations. Tonight is no different. This pathetic little girl who fails to even muster up an ounce of verve, of _defiance_, is no different.

She's doing it to vex him, he knows. He should be so pleased... not. Oh, he knows _very_ well. The terror she hands him so willing on a silver platter is just one emotion of many, the other being anger, fury, the searing need for vengeance, to _hurt_ him. And she is. Her lying eyes and their falsehoods hurt him, upset him. She has every reason, of course, to fear him, to be frightened right down to her dainty, dusty little toes, but he only sees the insult she's blatantly flinging in his face, not the compliment. She doesn't mean to stoke his ego, to pat him on the back. She's _stabbing_ him in the back, with a bow on top. She's a sodding bitch.

He squeezes her arms tighter, so it _hurts_, and roughly pushes away her lying eyes, turning her away from him and pulling her closer so he can smell her hair. Disappointingly, it smells like mint, and Joanna Beth. The mint he wouldn't have guessed on in a million years, but the Jo's about right, he thinks. Humans all smell the same to him. Pathetic! Weakly.

He relaxes his grip on one of her arms and slides a hand down her side, bringing it to rest momentarily on her hip, listening to her silent tears – he can practically _taste_ the salt in the air – and the sound is disgusting and strangely not thrilling at the same time. He doesn't linger on any falsely familiar, _gentle_, intimate caress – he's not here to give her a hug – but slides his hand further along, across blood and gritty stuff – more blood, aired just a touch, with undertones of shredded meat and assorted filth – and digs his fingers right into the bloody, hot, gaping wound, right inside of her without a single shred of hesitation.

Her scream of agony is muffled by his other hand covering her mouth and more tears splash from her eyes, pouring down her face and across her skin and his without so much as a tingly tingle, and he can _feel_ the last vestiges of fight drain from her small, human body, held snugly against his own in all the right places, he can _smell_ her pain, and well... _that is arousing!_

Suddenly, he likes his little present a whole lot more than he did before. Even without the cherry on top.

.

She really takes it out of him, her and her _rotten_ meat suit, but he supposes it's not her fault. It's not her fault that funny – so not funny – angel decided to bring her back all mangled up and dripping blood onto his floor. It's not her fault it leaves a decidedly bitter taste in his mouth when he heals her, because, he has to face it, he wants her alive so he can play with her, not dead so the only thing she'll be good for is kicking around, or pissing off those Winchesters and their newlyest daddy, Robert, a whole heck.

He's not _that_ stupid. She's his special present, and he's not sharing her with anyone. Well, aside from the meat suit he's currently getting around in. But no-one else. Exactly zip, _nada_, zilch of anyone else.

She's his now.

.

By the time he's done patching her up and making her all shiny and good as new, his meat suit is kicking up a regular fuss, all heavey-breathed as though he'd tossed it down a hill or something, and he's damn sick of listening to it go on, of listening to its pathetic whining about its limitations. "Oh, shut up!" he scowls, and jerks the girl around to face him, promptly sealing her lips with his in a kiss.

Hmm. At least she doesn't _taste_ like mint, just better, patched up good and proper. He's almost pleased with his handiwork, but this little girl doesn't please him so much. She's a killer and she despises his kind right down to her filthy, girly soul. Much the same as he despises her kind, he supposes. Oh, what a pair they make.

As if reading his thoughts, she wakes up a bit and starts struggling, but he's not letting go. Nope; sorry, girly, no can do. You're mine now, all mine. Struggle all you like, Mommy's not here to save you. Damnation, she's probably living it up on a cloud someplace. The high life! Nobody's gonna save you now. Nobody. Can't even save yourself, silly girl. Silly girl.

Still, it's not so bad, he thinks, weaving his fingers into her soft, plush hair. At least his meat suit's human. Ish. And moderately handsome to boot. She could do a whole lot worse, if he thinks about it. _He_ could do a whole lot worse than merely kiss her.

She doesn't cry this time, but her struggles continue for quite some time, until he gets her back against the wall, one hand in her hair, the other tracing the curve of her bottom and pulling her closer. That's when she freezes.

"There, there," he whispers, drawing back just enough to look into her eyes. "There's nothing to be afraid of. Who do you think I am now?" Laughter rises in his throat, splashing the room with sound, but the girl's face doesn't twitch a bit. "I'm not such a bad guy once you get to know me," he purrs, and goes right back to kissing her. Ah, sod it – why not? Even he needs a break once in a while, a little downtime from a _very_ demanding job.

.

Though her wounds are healed, her general state of muckiness has remained, depressingly, the same, though it doesn't make him wary to touch her. Dirt can be washed off, a touch is much more lasting. Hell, he's counting on it. He doesn't have a whole lot of outstanding memories in this department, but, he decides, he wants one. Just one will be enough. He's a little out-of-touch; it's time to come back down to Earth now. And who better to lend a helping hand in the task than the pretty little Earthling in his arms?

He has a feeling she's wishing, right about now, that she had a few memories of her own to fend off what he's about to do to her, wishing she hadn't turned down her pal, Dean's, offer, but he's just peachy with that. More than, in fact. It thrills him to know that he can have something the great and _wonderful_ Dean Winchester couldn't. More than he can say with just words alone, so he doesn't even try. He reckons he has another way to show his little gift how happy he is with her. By toying with her. She's his toy now and if he wants to play with her, that's exactly what he'll do. And if she puts up a fight, so much the better, so much the bloodier. Tastier.

He'd be so lucky, he thinks, because right now she's not putting up anything. She's playing jellyfish, or just plain Dead Fish. He isn't sure which, though he hopes it's the latter. He's not so fond of jellyfish. Hasn't been ever since watching that awful animated kid's flick, _Finding Nemo_. Somehow, the idea of talking fish is simply beyond spooky. Most days talking humans is insult enough, but _fish_! Stomach-churning, that's what it is.

Forget about all that, he tells himself now, sliding a hand up under the hem of Jo's thoroughly tattered top. Her skin isn't clammy anymore; it's warm and tender and so, so juicy, he imagines, though he's not going to take a bite just yet. Once was enough. He doesn't want her girly screaming ruining this for him too, unless it's that other kind of screaming. The kind that says "Yes please!" and not "Oh stop! Fuck, stop! You're killing me!" After all, he had his chance, and let it go. He doesn't want to kill her... just yet.

He just wants to play with her for a while.

It's a shame she can't get it into her silly, little head how lucky she is. A real, damn shame.

His hand skims over the patch of meat that had been, not so long ago, a bloody, torn mess, and finds only warm skin and dried blood, and one more small thing – to his utter delight – the tiniest of the tiniest shivers. The good kind, not the other kind.

He smiles. So, his little toy's not so plastic after all. Not so impervious after all. She has her weak points, and he's going to make it his business to find – and fully exploit – each and every one of them. As his gift to her, of course.

He likes that, the little shiver that races through her body at just the right prodding. It's so human, and almost, almost endearing. Of course, he's trying hard to endear himself to her, and if he's honest with himself, it's not all that easy. It's certainly no walk in the park. If he didn't know better, he'd say it was much like trying something new, not something old and just a bit dusty, just a bit outdated, for him, of the no longer human kind. But that's just it, he can appreciate a good challenge as much as the next guy, which is the very damn reason he's doing this.

He's got his imagination – oh, that wonderful imagination! – but somehow imagination alone doesn't seem as though it's going to cut it this time. Not without a little prodding, at least. A little... research. He's a demon, as is that hag, Meg, and he's itching to know if he has even the slightest chance in Hell of knocking her off her game, or if he was just wasting his time with that spell, because that would be unfortunate, after going to all that trouble. So now, his research... If he is going to come to a truly informed decision, there's no getting around it really, and he's not that bloody squeamish. If angels can suck it up and suffer through it, so can he.

If not, then bloody oath, what the Hell's he doing strutting around as though he owns the place? If not, then he doesn't bloody _deserve_ to own the place! And he really, really wants to. Legitimately. He wants to feel as though he's earned his spoils, not just taken them because he bloody well could. If all it took was a snap of his fingers, then he probably would have turned his nose up at it anyway, and walked away. Sometimes, to truly appreciate a thing, it's easier just to get out there and get bloody, to get a little mud in your hair and underneath your fingernails, otherwise there's the danger of believing it's just something you dreamed up, or worse, something that's not even worth the time it takes to dream up, because it's all so so-what.

He wonders, for a second – maybe just a nanosecond – if demons get depressed, then shakes the idea off. Him, depressed? Yeah right!

Tightening his hand around a fistful Jo's hair, he pulls away from her and the wall and tugs her after him, across the room. "All right, that's enough of that! Playtime's over. Let's go, cur."

She doesn't make a sound but the look on her face is enough to tell him she's not happy. Not in the least.

He almost smiles, but his pleasure is short-lived and he stops and lets go of her hair. The angel wouldn't be so rough, he thinks, and this little experiment isn't just about himself. It's as much about business as it is about pleasure, about assessing the progress and his chances of coming out on top in this war, as it is about a weak-hearted distraction. He lets his hand fall to her arm and rests it there lightly, hoping she'll come along nicely so he won't have to drag her.

For a second, she doesn't move at all, then her gaze crashes into his and she stares at him blankly, running through her options or just trying to suss him out. He forces a smile onto his face. Her eyes don't change, but stay just as stony as ever, but she walks with him to the bed and allows him to stop her with his hands on her arms and lift her chin up.

"My dear, there's no need to look so pleased," he says. "We've hardly got started." Then he drops his mouth to her neck and pushes back her head with a hand because she doesn't move and he doesn't fancy bumping his head on her chin whilst he's about it.

The only thing on her that moves is her chest, heaving away quietly, silently furious, silently wishing, with all the rest of her, that it could just _kill_ him. He goes on kissing her and tries not to think too hard about that, though he imagines the angel may just have been thinking the same thing when he'd been obliging Meg in helping out with breaking her troublesome little spell. Hell, she may even be dead for all he knows. The angel might have decided that he had little use keeping her around afterwards and just ganked her. The little human's not going to get so lucky, though. She's just a human, defenceless and weaker than he by nature. He can't see how she'd manage to best him, even though it would probably get a laugh out of him to see her try.

He stops kissing her and frowns, straightening up to meet her eye. "I have to ask, sweetheart, you don't seem too enthused about this all – you don't bat for the other team, by any chance?"

"Wish I did," she growls, and he can't help but smile. Oh, he loves that. Now they're getting somewhere. She's starting to perk up a little.

"Yeah, me too," he mutters, just to be an ass.

She doesn't respond, and he grabs her hand, swinging it around a bit and looking into her eyes. "What do you say we lose the gift wrapping, hmm?"

"Go to Hell," she replies blankly.

"Been there, done that," he returns, with a grin. "Next!"

He continues smiling at her until she takes his point – _she_'s next – and pulls her hand out of his to take her top off. She throws it down on the floor as though she doesn't really care for it all that much anymore and starts on removing her jeans, not even glancing at him. Her mom had given her that top but she's not about to let him know that, she's not about to give him a _damn_ thing. Except, actually, she is. No choice, really.

"There's a good lass," he says, clapping a hand to her arm, but she brushes it off and turns away from him to get rid of her underwear. "Shy, are we?" he asks, leaning to the side a bit as though thinking she might turn and meet his eye with a dirty glare, but she doesn't bother, just turns back around to face him and stares at him, obviously making some sort of suggestion about the fact that she's standing there all naked in front of him and he hasn't even bothered getting rid of his jacket.

He looks down at her bare stomach and places a hand to the spot where her wound had been, sighing. "Yes, well..."

She doesn't really want to hear his stupid voice, or his so charming accent – which she fucking _hates_ – so she leans forward and grabs his silly jacket and takes it off herself, letting it fall to the floor along with all of her stuff and going for his shirt next. She can't be bothered with the buttons so she just yanks on it a bit until the buttons fly off this way and that and then she gives him a shove in the chest and glares him in the eye – she's not his fucking nanny or his bloody mummy, and she's not going to do everything for him – and is momentarily warmed to see that he hadn't expected her to act so aggressively, as though he thought she'd already figured onto her place in _his_ kingdom.

The look is there and gone in the blink of an eye and Crowley promptly snaps back to the real world and sets about shedding some of his own wrapping whilst she stares down at her feet and tries not to glare at the empty fireplace because she's actually cold.

Suppressing a sigh, she shuffles backwards and plomps herself down on the mattress, wondering what she's missed and who's still fighting and who isn't, or in other words, who's alive and who's dead. She can only assume her mother is still up in Heaven and is glad of it. She doesn't think the world has gotten better since she's been gone; seems like it's only gotten worse.

A hand touches her face and she throws back a glare. "Why are we doing this?"

Crowley winks at her but she isn't fooled. Not even when he replies cheerfully, "Hell, because we can, girly. Live a little, eh!" He's not really overly impressed, either, even if he'd prefer her to think otherwise.

Somehow his eyes have slipped from hers and she just knows he's staring at her stomach again and she grabs his chin and smacks him on the nose lightly. "God, that is so _rude_! Look at me, not my..." bellybutton, "bits!"

Meeting her eye, he tosses his head and says, nonchalant as you please, "They're nice bits."

She pushes him in the arm. "Don't get cute with me, demon."

He leans closer, a smile ghosting over his lips. "I think I'll do just that," he says. "Now close your eyes. Your cross-eyed stare is making me queasy."

She rolls her eyes and by the time they come back around from that little adventure he's kissing her and she doesn't much want to look into his eyes then, so she lets her eyes flutter closed and thinks about something else, toasted marshmallows and hot chocolate, an old Aretha Franklin tune, the taste of blood in her mouth whilst she tries desperately to hang on though she knows she'll have to take a walk this time, wishing it weren't so, all the same. Anything but this, here, this _creature_ kissing her.

If she keeps her eyes closed, she tells herself, pushing down the self-disgust, she can pretend it's someone else, someone _human._ She starts to make a list in her head of all the pointers, the so-called overwhelming evidence: the warmth of another body close to her own, for starters, the mushy lips working insistently on her own – she won't think 'soft' – the hand on her thigh, with exactly five fingers. There are other things too. She picks them out of the air blindly, allowing her hands to roam upwards. Hair, there's hair. She runs her hands through his hair, lets one hand trail down, over his neck, onto his back. There's that too: skin and bone and muscle. All of the normal human things.

The lips are kissing her shoulder now and she lets herself be lowered back onto the bed, clutching tightly to the growing list she's building in her mind, pretending she doesn't feel panic, doesn't feel trapped. There is a smell, underneath the expensive cologne and the emptiness, dustiness of the big, old room; a smell she can lie and tell herself is entirely human.

Her body shivers, telling her to tear away, to run, run as fast as she can, but she hangs on. She keeps her eyes closed tight. Her fingernails dig in, scraping across a back and leaving angry, raised trails which she comes back to with her fingertips, taking them as further evidence even if there hadn't been any hiss of pain and annoyance, like she thinks there should have been. Yes, yes, it's true, he's just a person, only human, too.

Then her eyes tear open and wide, wide, wide and she's, all of a sudden, shoved back into her body, back into blinding clarity, sensations mounting on sensations, making her want to push, scream, kick, bite – _die_! She struggles to breathe but it's too much, she can't get the air into her lungs fast enough, deep enough. She's suffocating.

"Jo. Jo, calm down."

She beats her open palms against unyielding shoulders frantically, drowning in her own panic, desperate to escape, to live! Ugh. She feels coherent thought melting away, feels herself slipping.

"Hey. Hey!"

Someone is talking, talking to her, a hand cupping the back of her neck. Everything is spinning, she's still gasping, still can't breathe, and then the air returns to the room in a blinding flash that isn't really real and she can breathe, she's not dying.

Strangely, she's sitting up and someone is rubbing her back, blabbing a load of nonsense she suspects is some kind of Gaelic, maybe Scottish. She sits there shaking and gasping to fill her lungs, the colours bursting in her eyes slowly receding, slowing taking shape and revealing a room. She almost can't bring herself to turn and acknowledge the monster comforting her.

Taking huge, unsteady hiccupy breaths, she puts down her foot and forces herself to turn and look, to _look_ – and deal with it, and face reality and pull her head out of fantasy land. That's the only reason this happened, after all.

The _monster_ takes one look at her face and pulls her close, into his arms, and holds her as she trembles. She feels sick, on so many levels, but not only because this thing holding her is a monster, but because it looks human, it looks worried, and she just can't buy it, and what kind of a human does that make her? To make someone she barely even knows out to be a liar, a thing less than human, less than worthy of honest feelings!

The monster laughs quietly. "That wasn't fun, hmm? Perhaps-"

"No!" She doesn't know why she's even saying this, doing this to herself, she only knows she wants this thing done with, over with! "I'm fine!" Her breathing is almost steady now and she pushes away from him, her eyes dark and glaring. "Just," tears swim in her eyes, "do what you want to do." Fighting back tears, she lays back on the mattress and waits for him to join her, her heart pounding painfully hard.

Later, she lets the feelings take her over, lets them have all of her, too afraid that if she tries to fight them she'll crash headlong into another panic attack, afraid she won't be so lucky to come out the other end the second time. She moans when she feels like moaning and touches what she feels like touching, she scratches and digs her heel into the mattress, one leg wrapped tightly around the monster's waist, anything to get through it and out the other end.

She feels herself coming undone and she doesn't fight, melting into a pool of boneless, gasping girl until she can care again, until awareness returns and tells her to move, to peel herself off the mattress and collect her clothes.

The monster has collapsed on top of her and she doesn't like it. She's too hot and he's too heavy. At least, the meat suit is. She squirms about and somehow manages to escape. Soon, she's back in her own skin, her torn and tattered and dirty clothes. She settles in the corner and hugs her thighs to her chest, staring at nothing in front of her. If it's okay, she'll be leaving now.

When the monster finally leaves, thankfully silently, she rouses her head from her knees and returns to the bed. She gets down on the floor and crawls under the bed, stretching out her legs and closing her eyes. Now she is the monster. Now nothing can hurt her.

.

The house is deceptively quiet as he walks through its halls, even the staircase is hushed tonight, or perhaps nothing is quiet, nothing is soft and innocent, perhaps it's only him and he's only feigning comfortable numbness. Whatever the case, when he stops at the edge of the roof, the night air feels like ice and stings his eyes. Then he realises that's not the cold air, that's just him too: he's crying.

Not such a good idea then, he thinks. In fact, he's fairly certain it was a fucking _stupid_ idea!

Stupid bloody wanker. Uppish fool.

He can't help thinking he's hardly fit to be the king of Hell and he can't help crying because that's not right, this isn't how it's supposed to end.

He should walk into that room right now and send that girl packing straight back to Heaven, with a stake through her heart, but he just can't move and he bloody well can't stop crying, either. He feels like the world's biggest loser and he hates it.

Forcing his limbs to move at last, he stalks back downstairs and into the kitchen, making up his mind that if she's going to be his girl – if he's going to keep her – he's going to start seeing that she is treated right, starting with finding her something to eat. Humans need to eat to live, even if he doesn't.

.

When he returns to her room, she's nowhere to be seen. It isn't hard to work out where she's hiding, though, and he sets the plate of sandwiches down on the bed and lies down on the floor beside the bed, peering into the gloom and frowning. "I found you," he says.

Her face is eerily devoid of emotion, she could well be sleeping, but then her eyes snap open and he shivers involuntarily, feeling guilty all over again as shame settles heavily in the air around him. Look what he did to the little girl, to a perfectly good hunter, slayer of his kind. He can't help wondering if she can feel it to. The suffocating horror of it all, the shame of stepping over the edge of something he can't ever come back from. He hopes not. As long as he is the more fearsome, he holds all the cards; she can't get to him. He can't let her guess that he may be putting it on just a little bit. He knows how to spell 'disaster', and that would definitely be it.

He's the fucking monster, he's just playing nice for kicks. It's as simple as that. Underneath, he's still the monster, he still enjoys everything he probably shouldn't and turns his nose up at the "good stuff".

He's not having some kind of crisis of faith; he's bloody playing. He's perfectly fine, thanking you. He _knows_ he's right, so where's the crisis? There is no crisis, no problem. The windmills of his mind are turning just fine.

"If you're hungry, we have sandwiches."

"Do you have cyanide?" she asks darkly, not meeting his eyes but staring up at the mattress instead.

"Actually, no."

She finally turns her head and offers up a glare. It barely struggles out of the gloom and then is so weak it collapses and dies before it can reach him.

"Don't make me," he reaches out a hand, "grab you out of there."

She jerks back, eyes sharp and frantically alert. She scrambles out the other side and jumps to her feet.

When he gets up off the floor she's sitting on the bed, the plate of sandwiches pulled close and resting against her thigh, silently chewing on a sandwich, eyes trained on her lap and nothing else.

He walks around the bed and sits down beside her, the plate between them. Her hand goes to it, as though to claim it as her own, as though to protect it from the monster in the shadows, and it is for that reason alone that he reaches for one of the sandwiches. He isn't hungry. He feels ill. But he has to maintain the illusion of control.

She hunches into herself a bit and glares harder at her legs.

He takes a sandwich and wonders what he's going to do next. He wouldn't know how to look after a human if he Googled it on the Web, looked it up in some library. Hell, he wouldn't know where to begin.

She eats half of the sandwiches and then she loses her appetite, staring at the floor for a long time before he decides to just do something and reaches over to touch her arm. She jerks away, out of his reach, and the plate ends up on the floor in the process, the sound of smashing china surprisingly startling, for her as much as him. Her eyes are wide and she's covering one side of her face with a hand. He ignores the obvious fact that she doesn't want him anywhere near her and moves closer, pulling her roughly to him, an arm held firmly around her shoulders. For a long time, she doesn't relax, and it's actually quite uncomfortable for him, with her shoulder digging into his chest, but she finally does settle down. Her eyes droop closed and he rests her head on his shoulder, only then relaxing slightly himself. Her breathing is calmer now.

They stay like that for a good while before he decides the hour is late enough that even a big girl should probably be thinking about turning in and puts her to bed. She doesn't stir, even when he moves her, and he is oddly grateful. Her face is no longer peaceful. She scowls in her sleep. It looks painful. He leans over to kiss her head and stands up, moving away to find something to cover her up with, a blanket or such. Then he picks up the broken plate and pieces of sandwich and leaves the room.

Nobody appears in the hall to stop him, to question him, and the house is quiet and still once more. This time, it doesn't bother him. It feels strangely peaceful. The stupid, painful games people play, he muses. They'll eat you up in the end and you'll never even see the sharp teeth until it's too late. He didn't.

He'd like to tell himself it's all a game, nothing more than a game, but then that would just be dishonest. He wonders if he might not anyway. After all, he is a demon. Dishonesty to a demon is like rain to a forest. Refreshing and nourishing, just what the doctor ordered. Medicine for the troubled soul.

He returns to her door and stands outside for a long time, the back of his head rested against hard wood, listening to the quietness of the night, that deceptive quietness, telling himself he is this strong, he is as fine as he wants to be. He's still out here, isn't he? He hasn't given in, he hasn't folded. Here he is and there she is and there's entire worlds between them. He doesn't want her, he doesn't need her, she is not the flame to his candle.

He's fine.

It was just a game. The game ends but real life goes on. Another day rolls around, there's always another game to play, always a new game to try, a more enticing distraction, a brighter fire to fascinate. That's living, isn't it? The perpetual search? Time may pass that passions burn on, life goes on, the frontier draws ever farther from sight, teasing the eye to follow, to just dare, to seek all that is out there and is not. To just discover.

He isn't so old yet, he thinks. He's not ready to give up just yet, to settle for sloppy thirds. If it's out there, he wants it all, and he's going to have it some day or die trying. He doesn't need some little girl, he doesn't need that kind of affection, that kind of infection hanging about. The girl is nothing, means nothing. Her weakly antics pathetic, far from endearing. Blood and gore, that's endearing. Gumption, boldness, some bloody guts, that's endearing. Not a wimpy, snivelling girl child.

He doesn't need her, he's fine on his own. Always was, always will be.

Perfectly fine.

He shines best alone, with no-one standing in his way.

.

Morning comes and isn't standing at her door anymore. He watches the world outside the living room window and thinks about a time when it will all be his, the whole bloody lot of it. Won't that be fantastic?

A small sound outside the door catches his attention and he frowns to see that it is Jo, out in the hall. She's almost at the staircase and when she glances back and sees him she takes off running, up the stairs. He hasn't a single idea why she might be running, or where she thinks it's going to get her, but she's fleeing so he follows, drawn by the unstoppable pull of predator to prey. Then, somehow, she is standing at the edge and the ground is so far away. When she glances back this time, there are tears of determination in her eyes and he suddenly understand what she means to do. Now that she knows Heaven is out there, now that she knows she doesn't have to play this game, doesn't have to dance to the enemy's drumbeat, she can take the plunge, can throw herself into welcoming arms.

His heart stops. Oh shit!

She is tattered and torn, roughed up and dirty, but the morning sunlight sets off her complexion just beautifully and he can't help remembering how perfectly they fit together when he held her to him. He can't help thinking he can't let her go, not just yet.

"Joanna!"

He holds out his hand, which is, he is sad to say, shaking badly by now. He doesn't hear his heart beating a war drum, he's listening for her thoughts, for a sign she will stay. Oh please stay! Everything about her is poison to him but she's in his blood now and he can't refuse just a little bit more, just one more minute. There is so much he doesn't know, so much to learn still, things he may never learn with someone else. For now, she is the one. The one he must hang on to. "Just take it, sweetheart," he whispers.

Her eyes are wide. If she takes just one more step she'll be gone.

"Take my hand."

The doe-eyed expression fades from her face, replaced by a wild, beaming glee. Catch me if you can, her brightening eyes whisper. Bet I'm faster than you.

The life in her stabs at his heart, if only she weren't about to throw it all away, if only she would come back to him.

He drops his hand, turns away. No way he can change her mind, he figures. Doesn't mean he has to give her the satisfaction of seeing his disappointment. Like he could care less, eh? Ha, ha. He'll just be a sore loser and she can live with that, or die with it. He won't play her game, even if she has won. He is as strong as he wants to be and, oh!, he wants to be! Has to be!

She is as crazy as Meg and he has _got_ to stop messing with these crazy girls. It's not healthy for him.

Walk away, he tells himself. Walk away, laugh at her. Crazy girl. Let her stew on that, mate. Just walk away. No jokes, she is just a girl and there are plenty more where that one came from.

Ah, fuck it! He heads off back to the house but someone catches his hand and he freezes. Oh fuck! Don't tell me. He's got to be fucking crazy, he thinks. Why didn't he just go over and give her a good shove? Why didn't he give her what she wanted? Whilst he's thinking all these things, she steps closer and slips her arms around him and they still fit too damn well. He touches her arm wrapped around his middle and wishes he wasn't such an idiot.

He knows he's an idiot but what's her excuse? She's a hunter and he's a demon. What is this game she's playing now and how does he outsmart her?

She loosens her hold and he turns to face her, catching her eyes. She doesn't smile but leans forward to whisper in his ear, "We'll have this one weekend, and then-"

He doesn't want to hear the rest of that thought so he takes her face in his hands and kisses her. Isn't that better now? He certainly thinks so, and maybe she does too because she wraps an arm around his neck and kisses him back.

He's sure it's going to be a lovely day, blue skies all 'round, but he just doesn't care. It's already a great day, he doesn't need anything else to make it so. Just his perfect disaster safely in his arms, just a kiss from a human angel, the Devil's daughter for sure.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>

I have no excuses. I'm just evil.

If you haven't already done so, check out the fics on Archive of Our Own. I started bawling. *shame-faced* Then I laughed. Worse! Ugh, some of them are completely awesome!


	5. Chapter 5

She is the girl in the tight neon green dress, black leather jacket, and high black boots, belting out a Toploader tune behind the microphone with painful conviction, her eyes sometimes rolling in strange directions underneath sweeping eyelashes, and soft, swishy dance moves that can't fail to catch the eye. The dress is plainly awkward in every sense of the word but she just doesn't seem to care; she's walking the thin line between two worlds, between memory land and strutting her stuff on the stage. It's karaoke night, apparently.

When Dean first glances her way, he doesn't recognise her. He's already ordered drinks before it dawns on him and his eyes look for Sam, standing by the door as he chats on his phone, absently patting a hand on his leg in time with the song.

Dean isn't sure if he's hallucinating or not, but it sure feels trippy enough to be true. When Sam walks over, frown and all, he figures it's all true. If he was hallucinating Sam definitely would not be frowning like that; he'd probably be hitting on some hot barmaid Dean had been pining after from Glance One, which he practically _never_ did.

Dean runs a hand over his face and turns to glance across the room, towards the stage. He can't help but watch Jo digging it on stage like she really means it. He can't work out how she's alive but figures she's probably strapped for cash and is hoping to win this comp and a couple of bucks along with. She'd never feel right taking someone else's money if it wasn't from some greedy corporation who'd never miss it anyway, no matter how much they'd bitch and moan when they finally clued on.

Sam follows his gaze and the frown falls clean away. "Jo! Oh my God!"

Dean puts a hand on his arm to stop him from rushing over there and seizing the woman off the stage and hugging her to death. They have no way of knowing if she's compromised or not.

When Jo finishes her song, the crowd claps and she nods once and wastes no time stepping off stage. "Fancy bumping into you boys here," she says, passing them on her way to the bar. Their eyes track her movement and they spin about. Sam's frowning again but Dean doesn't even bother, and jumps right to Scowl of the Century.

She sighs, leaning back against the bar easily. "Yeah, I was on my way to Bobby's, but..." She rubs her fingers together. "Always the green stuff, always." She steps forward suddenly and throws her arms around Dean, hugging him tightly. Dean doesn't move and before he can so much as open his mouth to make some angry comment, she's already turning to Sam, biting her lip and catching his eye for his permission.

Sam shakes his head – she doesn't even _have_ to ask, ever – and sweeps her easily into his arms, towering over her as he does to practically everyone he knows well. "Last time we saw you, you didn't have to worry about things like money or the latest fashion trends," he whispers against her hair, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. "What happened, little lamb?"

The 'little lamb' comment turns Dean's stomach a little but Sam has always had his own way of saying stuff.

"When I find him," Jo replies, with a smile, "angel sushi's gonna happen." She clicks her fingers in time with the song another young woman is singing on stage. "Uh-ha-ha-ha!"

"You look well," Sam says, holding her away from him to inspect her properly.

Dean is still scowling. She seems pretty sweet but he can't bring himself to trust her, just in case she _is_ Jo – possessed by some frickin' evil SOB!

She shoots a glance his way. "I'll come quietly. Hit me up with whatever you like. I'm not possessed. Heck, at least not by demons. Kinda wish I was though, 'cause then I'd be right as rain ganking that total loser, Crowley. Let me just say," she pulls a scandalised face, "– what a cuckoo!"

"Crowley br... brought you here?" Sam asks.

"Just doesn't know when to quit when he's ahead," she says, talking animatedly with her hands. "And yeah, more or less. It was his asshole idea. So here I am, hating him." She scowls. "_Hating_!"

"Sign me up," Sam returns, with a grin, and Dean can see he's already sold.

Shit, the kid's just too trusting! Even after having been screwed over by demon after demon, he still trusts people like he breathes air, still takes them at their word. People he likes, anyway. It's both adorable and fucking irritating. Sammy with a soul, Dean thinks. There's a heart but the brain bit, that's always a little unco. Or maybe it's just the shock and unexpected joy at seeing Jo again that's got to him. With the whole big brother thing he's got going on, Dean figures it could well be that. Sammy's probably _loving_ not being the baby everyone adores for a second or two.

Dean snaps out of his thoughts in time to join the two at the bar and takes the beer Sam is passing his way, wondering if next time he shouldn't let Sam eat a whole box of cherry liqueurs all by himself. Maybe the chocolate's done something funny to him because he surely can't buy that it was the alcohol. Sam _can_ drink.

Jo holds her hand out, nodding at Sam, and he reluctantly hands over the cherry liqueur he'd been saving for Dean, just in case he changed his mind about wanting one later. "Thank you," she says sweetly, unwrapping the sweet and popping it into her mouth. She takes a sip of her orange juice to wash the last clingy taste of chocolate away and stifles a yawn. "Working a case?" she asks.

"Just finished up, actually," Sam tells her.

"Love it!"

"Jo-?"

She brushes a hand down her face, pushing hair from her eyes. "I'm alright, Sam. I made straight for the exit. I don't like tangling with demons. Last time wasn't good for me."

Sam nods silently, understanding completely.

Jo scratches the inside of her wrist, then meets Sam's eyes. "Come on, Sam, let's take a walk outside. Dean's death glare is about to kill me for real. Head, pain, unhappy camper. Let's just get this over with so he can stand with me in clear conscience."

Dean shakes his head, annoyed that Jo's putting this on him. Damn it! He can't just buy it. What if she _is_ possessed? He's the elder and he loved Jo, still does. Not the same way he loves Lisa but just look how peachy that turned out. He knocks back the rest of his beer and stands up. "A walk it is!"

.

Satisfied that she is who she says she is, Dean pulls a face. "What is that thing you're wearing, Jo?" He gestures to the dress. Sure, it's nice, and short, but... that colour!

She does a little wiggly thing and sways her hips from side to side. "I like it. It keeps them honest, ya know? If they're hangin' out for some sweet body their eyes just say so, right off the bat. They can't even help it. I like that. I like knowing what's on a guy's mind. If he's into me for the soul inside or merely a cute little lay."

Dean nods. "I see the logic," he says. Then, to Sam, "'Little lamb'?"

Sam ruffles Jo's hair and smiles, shooting his older brother a wink. She's so adorable and she dispenses hugs with a happy smile. What else can he call her?

Dean just laughs. Yeah, he bet Sam's been hanging out to muss up someone's hair for a while.

Jo grins and laughs too, and pretty soon Sam shakes his head – the three of them, together again, now that's something he hadn't expected – and joins in. In for a penny, in for a pound.

.

When they're driving back to Bobby's in the Impala and Dean asks, "How did you escape that crafty SOB's clutches?", Sam sleeping in the front seat and Jo sitting in back, she frowns into the rear-vision mirror and replies darkly, "Subterfuge."

"Ah."

"Actually, it was more like 'Argh!'" she returns. Offers a tiny smile.

"You were telling the truth, weren't you? When Sam asked? You're really... coping?"

"I'm coping," she says. "Still can't believe I didn't win, but I'm coping." She laughs quietly and catches Dean's eye when he turns to glance behind him for a second. "I'm doing alright, Dean," she tells him honestly. "Breathing, two hands, two legs. Most of my insides. I'm doing alright."

"Good to hear," Dean replies. "You let me know if anything changes."

"Yeah." She turns her gaze to the darkened window by her side and is glad she can't see her reflection, can't see the morose expression on her face.

"Joanna Beth."

She screams and presses her back into the door. It isn't until she realises she knows this randomly-appearing-out-of-nowhere person that she calms down slightly and digs the door handle out of her back. "Sorry, Cas," she whispers. "You startled me."

"As did you I, Joanna Beth."

"We're even then."

"It would appear so."

She smiles a little bit, then looks around Dean's way. He's watching the road. Sam blinks sleepily and frowns. "Hi, Cas."

"Hello, Sam," Cas replies.

Jo rests her head on Cas's shoulder and closes her eyes. She's actually quite tired and seeing as he's here...

.

All in all, Bobby takes it pretty well. At least, Jo thinks he does. He doesn't pose a lot of questions and she's quietly thankful. She loves being back on familiar ground again, just the smell of the old house brings tears to her eyes. She almost feels ashamed for them but she just feels so relieved she can't be too mad at herself. She hates having to lie to her friends but the truth is, she _should_ hate Crowley. Maybe she does. Yeah, she does. That's just not all. Nothing is ever simple in life, she thinks.

Being back here brings back a lot of old memories, old pains and joys, but as much as she misses her mom and Ash, she knows they're safe, wherever they are, and it helps. Strange as it is to think upon, it really does help.

What doesn't help is Dean explaining about the civil war in Heaven. Yeah, how had she _not_ known about that? Clearly, she hadn't been keeping up to date with Cloud Nine News 24/7. Too bad folk were so secretive over there, and bloody cryptic as cotton candy too. No matter the colour she never can figure out what the different flavours are, or maybe they're all the same flavour and she's just a little silly.

Bobby shows her to one of the spare rooms and she sits down on the bed, gazing at the wall blankly for a long time, trying to work things out in her head. When she turns to turn out the lamp, she sees someone's gotten cute with the night-stand. Carved into the side closest to the bed are the words _Meg was here_.

She frowns, not liking the sound of that at all. She stares down at her feet, gets down to check under the bed just in case. Everything looks fine but she's not sure. Meg? How many Megs does Bobby know? And how many who'd find it okay to graffiti his antique furniture? She feels slightly queasy and wonders what the boys are talking about whilst she's stowed away in here, what they're discussing with their angel friend. The civil war, the continuing efforts of the demons to generally wreak Hell on Earth? Her?

She lies down on the bed, stares up at the ceiling. Her stomach hurts. She rejects the pain, knows it's not real, it's only her mind playing funny games with her again. It's being doing it for a while now.

She places a hand on her stomach and closes her eyes, leaves the bedside lamp on. When she finally drifts off to sleep, her hand is still there, clutching her side, and when she curls up slightly, it doesn't budge.

She doesn't sleep well.

.

Meg is smoking a cigarette, happily choking on the smoke and pulling something of a face, leant against a grubby row of sinks in the ladies', when Castiel arrives. She swipes a hand in front of her face in greeting, swashing away some of the smoke, and takes another drag and promptly scrunches up her face is disgust. "Lovely evening out," she says.

He takes the cigarette off her and drops it into one of the filthy sinks.

"Hey," she complains, "that's littering!" She offers up a dirty look she doesn't really mean, mutters, "Litterer." Adds, "Don't you care about the Earth? You should. It cares about you."

He frowns at her distastefully – this, coming from a demon – and touches the bruise colouring her cheek yellow. It's not really a big bruise and the lighting in this icky place mostly hides it but he would have to notice it.

She pushes his hand away half-heartedly and pretends to brush something off his shoulder, though his trench coat is as clean as it most always is, thanks to angel magic. She tugs on his collar and cuts her eyes to his. "I don't remember calling," she drops casually.

"You did not," he returns.

She leans closer, a wry grin twisting her lips. "Did Dr. Phil send you? Oprah? Ricki Ocean?"

"No."

She frowns. "Hmm. Interesting. Do I get a clue?"

He touches her cheek again.

"It's fine," she snaps dismissively, but then he leans closer and kisses her. Mystery solved then, she thinks, not altogether unhappy out the predicament. Yeah, so maybe she was hanging out for a little angel fix but what the Hell, he's a mind reader now? Like, an intergalactic mind reader? Pretty freaky.

.

She knows very well that it isn't the same for him as it is for her, so she plays good demon and pretends she doesn't care, pretends it's the same for her: only desire and fulfilment. In honesty, it's easier that way. Easier on Cas, easier on herself. And whilst she's lying to him, it's much easier for to believe the lie herself. Much sweeter, too, and she's not about to argue with that.

He's sorta wonderful and she's tried saying that in the mirror about a dozen times and laughing at herself, rolling her eyes, but she never quite pulls it off. Somehow she always ends up thinking about things she really shouldn't be thinking about, about kissin' and huggin' and all those naughty things they warn you about when you're a girl and think he really likes you for you and not just your – cough, cough – candy-sweet treats. But she doesn't mind being naughty or nice if it's for her best enemy forever. She's a big girl and she knows how to play the game. And why not have a little fun whilst they're at it? Why the Hell not?

She's wearing a new purple lace bra but Castiel doesn't really care what she's wearing, or if she chose it especially for him or simply because it was on sale that day, which, truthfully, it wasn't.

Strolling by the window of the lingerie boutique, she just couldn't resist when her ever-devilish little imagination winged itself away to some imaginary land and she imagined all the damn Cas wouldn't give about what she was wearing and discarded it with a minimum of fuss, his hands all over her body and so, so hot. She'd actually stopped to stare and was only snapped out of her _awkward_ little trance when some little kid came running up to her and hugged her, mistaking her for his mother. The look on the kid's face when he'd realised he'd been wrong, she wasn't his mommy, had frankly freaked her out. Backing into the glass shop-front gracelessly, she'd slowly slid her away along the glass until she reached the door, ripped it open, and hurried into the store with a great big dose of Relief Forte.

She got it in a set, with matching panties, which, she thinks now, as Castiel's hands trace the curve of her bottom and lift her off her feet, plonking her ass unceremoniously on the fucking dirty sink-top, she's glad she did. They certainly make her feel extra sexy in this dirty, disgusting place, or maybe that's all Cas, maybe that's his mouth on her neck, making her vision a little misty and her heartbeat a little tipsy. She has no idea how he does that but she's not going to stop him to ask because she'd probably die of pleasure deprivation if he stopped.

A moth flutters about the flickering lights on the ceiling and she shoots it a wink, her brain just a little mushy. Doin' alright up there? I know I am, down here.

She traces an infinity symbol in the small of Cas's back, just to see if she can, if her mind is still straight enough to pull it off, and grins and giggles breathlessly when she actually pulls it off, then she forgets why she's even laughing and decides its time to put her mouth to good use and sinks her teeth into his shoulder teasingly, her hands tugging at the front of his pants. Ugh! Her body feels like it's on fire. She needs him to stop toying with her and just do her already or else she's going to shove him back, yank him to the filthy, decrepit floor and just take what she wants. And he probably wouldn't like that.

.

Later, she sits alone on the sink, sore but not sorry for it. The light continues to flicker and she slips off the sink and picks up her panties and shimmies back into them, picks up her bra, her fingers not so snappy anymore. The buzz is wearing off now, everything she does feels just that bit pointless. It always does, coming down. She leaves the bra of the sink and goes for her blouse, tugging it on and looking for her cargo pants. She pulls them on and grabs her bra off the sink and shoves it into a pocket. Only then does she meet her gaze in the mirror. Her face looks blotchy, not glowing and happy; she isn't pretty. She isn't stunning. She doesn't even try on a flirty little smile because she's afraid it will scare her. She can't think why Cas would even look twice at her looking the way she does. Maybe he's just a traditionalist.

She turns away from her mirror-image and presses a small smile to her lips. No, it's because _he_ thinks she beautiful, she lies to herself. His baby's still beautiful to in his eyes, even when she's not. She leaves the toilet and scratches her fingernails against the wall as she walks away, her legs moaning about being tired in some massive bitch fit. She doesn't listen to them. Tired, my ass, she thinks angrily and stops to empty a mouthful of bile from her stomach into the dirt.

Her hands shake as pain rips through her chest, her legs wobble, but she clings to the wall and stays upright. Fuck! She knew she shouldn't have smoked that damn cigarette. It didn't agree with her meat suit from the start and it's just come to kick her in the ass.

She harks up another dose of bile and feels tears watering her cheeks. It really _hurts_. The pain darkens her eyes to black and she pushes away from the wall weakly, woozy on her feet as she staggers away from the building. She twists her ankle on her high heel and rips the damn things off, very nearly going for a spill in the process, and throws them away into the dark angrily, stumbling on without them.

She could easily blame Castiel for how shitty she feels right now, blame him for being a fucking angel and herself for being a Goddamned demon – for being simply incompatible – but she'd personally rather blow her brains out. How could Cas hurt her? How could he ever be bad for her when he makes her feel so good? She refuses to listen to shit like that.

Her vision starts to blur and the light is somehow draining away in front of her eyes. She figures it's her own fault for littering – for throwing her shoes away – the Earth is pissed at her, bloody demon bitch, and almost snickers at her own idiocy but the sound catches in her throat and she slumps to the ground but ends up on someone else's floor instead. She doesn't catch just whose because she's already passed out by then.

.

A horrific scream rips through the night-time quiet, jolting Dean from sleep, and he sits up, heart pounding heavily. He listens, waits. The scream comes again, chilling him to the bone. He leaps out of bed and runs.

Jo is sitting up in bed, hunched over, hands in her face, when he arrives. He can tell she's sobbing and he frowns, looking around for any signs of danger even though he's pretty sure it's not because of some monster that she was screaming like that, as though her heart was being ripped out.

Her shoulders are shaking and he feels absolutely bad for her. He feels like a tool for believing her so easily when she'd said she was okay, she was coping.

Sam appears at his back but doesn't stick around, mumbling something about, "I'll get a glass of water," and disappearing as fast as he'd come.

He bumps into the wall, at one point, mumbling to the wall, "Hello, friend," before moving off again, but Dean doesn't really hear him. His attention is fixed on Jo.

He steps into the room cautiously and she whispers, "I'm sorry," her voice muffled by her hands but clearly equal measures pain and apology.

Dean frowns and goes to sit down on the mattress, watching her sob into her hands silently and waiting for her to take her hands from her face and meet his eyes.

"I'm an idiot," Jo sobs, and he shakes his head. He doesn't think she's an idiot. He doesn't know why she'd say she was, but he doesn't think that at all.

She lowers her hands from her face and takes a shaky breath, a sob hitching in her throat and jerking her body strangely, as if someone had pulled a string to haul her to her feet but the string had broken before anything much had come of it.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks calmly.

"No. I can't." She sounds wretched.

Dean's heart aches for her. He wishes she'd give him something so he could do something. _Say_ something. "I'm a friend, Jo," he tells her. "I promise."

She nods, sniffing and brushing a fresh tear from her cheek with a badly trembling hand. "I know you are, sweetheart," she whispers.

He frowns. "I meant what I said in the Impala. You can talk to me. Tell me anything, Jo. Anything. I hate to see the people I care about hurting when... ever! I hate it! Shit, that probably makes me a freakin' selfish person given how much I get all sparkly-eyed over sharing my own emotions, but..."

She nods. "I just can't... say. I can't tell anyone, Dean. It's not just you. I can't tell anyone!"

He can hear the hysteria in her voice, the regret and pain, but he can't stop himself from asking anyway. "Why, Jo? Why can't you tell anyone?"

"I did a bad, bad thing!" she says in that heartbroken way, her eyes fixed on the wall across the room but registering nothing.

Dean laughs softly but it's a pretty poor attempt at lightening the mood, even to his own ears. "We've all done bad things, Jo," he says. "Some of them were necessary, some of them not, some of them were just shitty, to tell the truth, but... but that's how we learn, that's how we... know to be better. They're good for us, in a way, even though they don't always feel that way..." He has no idea what rubbish he's prattling on about but he's waiting for Jo to tell him to shut up or just tell him _something_.

"I'm not going to learn," she whispers. "I'm not sorry I did it. I'm sorry I woke you up when you were sleeping, but I'm not sorry..." he voice fails and she sobs again.

Dean tries to see what she might be getting at, tries to understand. "If you're not sorry then... Are you sure it was really such a bad thing? I mean, I know you, Jo. You're not a bad person. You know right from wrong. You're... great. If... if you're not sorry, maybe it was for the best?" he tries.

"No, it was bad." She sobs louder. "It was really freakin' bad, Dean!"

"Well..." He frowns. "You mind telling me what was so bad so I can be the judge of that. Seems to me you've been beating yourself up over this for a while." He winces but goes on. "Maybe you need a fresh perspective?"

She makes a little sound in her throat, clutching a handful of blanket crushingly-tight in her fist. "I can't tell you. I can't tell anyone." She's repeating herself, going over the same old arguments and seeing the same old conclusions.

"Jo." He reaches for her arm, touches it lightly.

She jerks her head around shakily and her eyes land on his, widening in her face, tears threatening to fall, eyes glimmering sadly. "It was really bad," she breathes, whisper-quiet. She really believes what she's saying. She isn't sorry but she did a bad, bad thing. An _evil_ thing.

Dean feels his hope, his tenuous courage to hold out against the darkness, the negative emotion pouring off Jo in waves, die, and whispers, "I love you, Jo. You can tell me."

A hysterical smile twists her mouth and her eyes sparkle and laugh loudly, tears dancing there merrily. "I will never tell!"

Dean's heart breaks but the sound of someone stepping on a creaky floorboard snaps his head up and around. He spies Sam standing in the room, frowning with concern. He steps closer and touches Jo's hand, wraps one of her hands around a mug of warm milk and then the other hand too. "I need to borrow Dean for a moment, darling," he tells her gently, and smiles at her. Her eyes are locked with his, mesmerised within his gaze, and Dean can't fathom how Sammy does it, how people just listen to him, how they fall so easily into in comforts he deals but push so strongly against his own.

He gets to his feet, touching Jo's shoulder gently but retracts his hand quickly when she flinches, stung. He follows Sam outside and along the hall, to the kitchen, and it's hard to look him in the eyes, to even look at him. It hurts inside, Jo's rejection. It hurts like crazy.

"I'm sorry," Sam apologises. "I know you guys were talking. Really talking." He walks around the kitchen table and kneels down on the floor, scooping the pale, unconscious girl into his arms as gently as he can manage.

Dean recognises her at once. Has no idea what she's doing her, or why she looks the way she does, but it's definitely her, definitely Meg. She is frightfully unlike herself. She doesn't respond at all, not even when Sam stands up and carries her to the living room, Dean trailing after him sadly, knowing who he'd rather be with right now. He doesn't like Meg. Not at all. She doesn't like him, either. She doesn't need him. But Jo does.

"What's wrong with her?" Jo's voice is quiet but her eyes are anything but. They're no longer crying, and they've started to come back alive, coloured by her sudden interest. She stands in the doorway, hanging onto the doorway as though thinking she might turn around and go off again, but she lets her hands slip from the door frame and drifts into the room, all graceful, silent steps and bright eyes.

Dean finds himself staring at her. He had his chance and now it's gone. He can feel that too. He can't help but feel lost and hurt.

Sam deposits of Meg on the couch and places a hand to her forehead, feeling for her temperature.

Jo flits over quickly and touches the other woman's cheek with the backs of her fingers. "Fever," she says, her hands reaching for one limp hand, fingers pressing into skin and frown creasing her forehead with concentration. Her eyes dart up and she turns to look for a clock but there are none. Sam offers his wrist; he's wearing a watch.

"We should get her to a hospital," Jo concludes, letting Meg's wrist slip from her fingers, arm dangling over the edge of the couch. "She's not doing well. We don't need this kind of trouble right now. There's nothing we can do for her a doctor can't do just as well, if not better. We don't deal with this kind of thing everyday." She shakes her head, frowning at them. They're not making tracks and she can't understand why.

Dean holds up a hand. "We... we should call Cas."

"Why? Why bother? I thought he was busy taking care of Heaven or the future of mankind or something."

Sam frowns, not sure whose side to take. He doesn't want his brother and his friend arguing over this, he just wants something to improve. He doesn't want Meg – and especially her not vessel – to die, he doesn't want anyone to die. If Meg's gone and this is really just her vessel fighting here on her own, Cas will know. He'll know something. He'll be able to help some _way_! "I agree with Dean," he tells Jo. "We should call Cas. What if that's not Meg in there? What if it's just our sister and she needs our help but she can't reach out and ask for it? We've got to know, Jo!"

Jo shrugs. "Do what you want to do," she says. "Whatever you think is best," she adds, on second thought.

"Oh Hell!" Bobby stomps over and shakes his head. "What's wrong with that black-eyed scourge now?"

"No idea," Sam says. "We're thinking about calling Cas."

"What are you waiting for?" Bobby replies, shooting Dean a strange look.

Dean nods, frowning at the couch arm. "Cas, ah, if you're not too busy, we'd really appreciate your input on... a thing... we have going on down here," he finishes lamely.

Jo crosses her arms to wait.

Dean looks around the room, meets Sam's worried gaze with a frown. "Ah, Castiel," Dean tries again. "Seriously, dude. A little help here. Sick chick," he points, "...possibly dying chick, who could do with a little TLC." He winces, not sure about that one exactly, and sighs. "Really, Cas, I'm not just calling to bitch about my crappy life, we really need you."

Jo shrugs one shoulder, walks out of the room, picks up the nearest telephone. "If nobody's gonna get that girl to the Impala, I'll just be calling the ambulance now."

Bobby snatches the receiver out of her hand and returns it to its cradle, frowning at her seriously.

Dean growls irritatedly and turns to Sam. "Alright, Sammy," he says. "Let's get her to the hospital. Hang on, bitch. Or not bitch." He scowls and marches out of the room.

"This is exciting," Jo says blankly, meaning it really isn't. It's two in the morning and she's tired and crabby and she really doesn't like herself right now. She should be sleeping off her bad mood but instead she walks after Dean and holds the door open for Sam, carrying Meg out to the car, and grabs the car door and yanks it open. "There you go."

"Tah."

She shrugs. "Hope the meat suit's okay," she mutters and wanders back to the house. She watches the tail lights disappear in the dark and wipes her mouth on the back of her hand, walking back inside and sitting down on her bed to sip her now lukewarm milk.

Presumably, Bobby is in his study, reading some book, trying to figure this thing out even though he doesn't know what this thing is yet and he really, truthfully hates the Meg bitch.

.

In the morning, after breakfast, she goes into town with the boys, to the hospital to see how Meg is, dresses in a emerald green shirt with teddy bear buttons – something Bobby had dug up from somewhere in the house – jeans and her black boots. Aside from the dorky top, she thinks she looks pretty nondescript, fairly regular, actually. She'll need to see about a wardrobe upgrade when the time is right. Maybe later, in the afternoon.

When no-one is paying much attention, she slips into Meg's room and stops to peruse her chart. Snorting at the name scribbled there, obviously Dean's handiwork, she thinks. Grover. Yeah, sure, the woman really looks a lot like that kid from The Nanny Diaries, too. Has a scowl just like him, in fact.

She frowns. Well, that's... different. She returns the chart to its proper place, glances at Meg's – Grover's – sleeping face, and turns away, slipping out of the room again.

She walks across the parking lot, unhurried, and sighs when she stops by the Impala. "You'll never guess," she says.

"Is she... alright?" Sam asks.

Jo shrugs. "Depends on your definition of the word, I guess. She's alive."

"Then what's the problem?" Dean asks.

Jo lifts her shoulders, lets them drop again, glances back toward the hospital. She sighs and looks at the boys. "She's pregnant. That's what it says on her chart. A couple of weeks. Maybe eight."

That stumps Dean. He glances 'round at Sam. "Persnickety wouldn't just let... let Grover... you know...? Go off on her own for a couple days, or whatever?"

"I don't know her that well to know... about anything like that," Sam says. "It may... it may be possible she was ousted from Grover's body by some type of exorcism and that's how... how we come..." He clears his throat in inference.

"Look, you two," Jo interrupts, "can we just stop calling her Grover?"

Sam and Dean look at her. Sam frowns. Dean asks, "Why?"

Jo makes a face. "I dunno. It's stupid."

"Then what should we call her?" Dean asks.

"Brooke?" Jo suggests.

Dean snorts in amusement, but drops the grin as soon he sees Jo's look of annoyance.

She crosses her arms frostily.

"Sweet," Dean concludes. "So, what now? We yank Meg outta Grover and break the happy news?"

Jo shakes her head. He can be a real thickhead sometimes! Really. "And how do you propose we do that?" she demands, with a glare.

"Cas..." Dean winces. "I guess he could. Probably. Maybe. If he ever checks his Voicemail and gets his butt down here."

"You can't just keep expecting that angel to fix your problems for you, Dean," Jo tells him.

"It's not my problem," he says, annoyed. "It's Meg's. And Gr- Brooke's."

Jo sighs heavily. "Whatever."

Dean runs a hand over his hair and turns on the spot, glancing up at the sky with a dark look of annoyance on his face. "Cas!"

"I am here, Dean," Cas tells him, from beside him.

Jo laughs, then seems to realise how rude someone construe that as and covers her mouth with a hand, trying not to look so pleased with herself. She doesn't apologise, though. She was right, after all. Dean expects too much of the angel. Castiel has his own shit going on, he'd even _told_ Dean he did. Dean was really being too silly. Cas wasn't his dad. He couldn't just drop everything and come when Dean wanted him to. Hell, John hadn't.

"What is the problem, Dean?" Castiel asks plainly.

"Grover's the problem," Dean replies. "I mean, she's not a problem, she's just... got a problem. A big, evil, Meg-shaped problem."

Cas frowns, clearly not following Dean. "How so?"

"Meg's meat suit. Gr-" He winces. "Brooke is in the family way."

"The family-"

"Preggers, dude. Pregnant. With child. Wah, wah. You know, one of those?"

"I understand."

Dean sighs heavily and wipes a hand over his forehead. "Great!"

Jo tilts her head from side to side, obviously taking the Mickey. She doesn't see how it's great, but if Dean says so, then he'd know, being the "more experienced" hunter. Ooo, ahh!

Dean nods. "So we're just thinking, maybe you c-" He stares at the space where Cas had been a blink ago, where he wasn't anymore. "What the-! Cas! You jerk! Jerk!" He shakes his arms out irritably, glances at Jo and Sam. "Let's go back to Bobby's. Cas knows where to find us if he needs us."

"Road trip!" Jo enthuses.

Dean ignores her and pulls his car door open roughly.

"God, Dean, transparent!" she snaps, getting in the back. "You're just pissed I wouldn't confess all my sins to you. Hell, knowing you, you'd probably snitch to Cas anyway, and ask him to pray for mercy on my soul or some ridiculous..." She falls short. "I already told you, I can't tell you. I _won't_ tell you. Fuck me! Fuck it, I'm being a real bitch." She leans over the front seat and shoots Sam a frown. "Got any liquor on you, Sammy?"

"No."

"Unfortunate."

"You don't need liquor," Dean tells her irritably. "You need to get whatever's messing up your head off your chest and you'll be... right..."

She pokes her tongue out at him. "Sam doesn't want to hear that, do you, Sam?"

"I don't know. I don't know what... you're not saying... so I don't know if I want to hear it or not."

She sits back and stares up at the ceiling. "Okay, fine. I... God, I don't know what to call it!" She waves a hand in Dean's direction. For some reason, they're still standing in the car park. They haven't moved at all. The engine isn't even going. She feels a heavy lump rise in her chest. If she's eve going to get this out, it has to be now. If she's ever going to draw the poison out and heal, today is the day the process kicks off. Right now. "I had an indiscretion with a monster. A bad monster, not... Fuck, the enemy, okay!" She drops her face forward, from the ceiling, and clenches her fists tight. "And I'd do it again. I would. I should have... I should have been swinging an axe at his head or something, but... I didn't!"

"Did you have an axe?" Dean asks, surprisingly calm, his voice strange devoid.

She pulls a face. "No."

"Did you have any weapons of any kind?"

"My hands. There was a wall. Um..." No, her boots are zip-up. No laces. "Dean, don't pretend like you're not pissed as Hell."

"Does this monster have a name?" he asks, just as blankly as before. He won't turn and meet her eye, won't even glance in the rear-vision mirror and try to catch her eye that way.

"Not one you want to hear," she says.

"I see."

She shakes her head.

"Why?"

She chews her lip, silent for a long moment. "He wanted to."

"What did you want?"

"Not... that."

"Did he-?"

"I didn't have much choice," she interrupts. "I said 'yes' because I couldn't say 'no', okay! I wasn't about to let some-" She puts a hand up to her mouth, shakes her head. "Not like that," she whispers.

Dean sighs. "Hell, Jo, it's your right. It's your body. I'd probably have..." He shrugs. "When... when all you can do is submit or have someone force you into it, sometimes the only way you can get through it is by saying you'll take it, you'll take it and it won't be as bad because at least it's on your own terms, in a way, even though, really... it's bullshit. It's..." he waves a finger by his head, "fun and head games. For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

"Had nothing to do with you," she tells him. "I... I don't mean that in an angry way. I'm not gonna blame you. What were you going to do, Dean? You didn't know."

"I freakin' hate that I didn't."

"Anyone who cares would, and you said it yourself, you love me. It's hard to love sometimes. Sometimes it's hard not to love. Double-edged sword, that there. Never be any different." She sighs. "Like I said, I'd do it again."

Dean turns around in his seat suddenly, meeting her eyes. "Are there other girls? Jo, are there others?" His eyes are urgent on her own.

"I don't know," she says honestly. "I don't mean that I'd do it again because I'd want to live, because I'd prefer it was as painless as... such a thing can be with such a creature. I mean I enjoy it. I enjoy it," she closes her eyes, "with him."

Dean winces but doesn't take his eyes off her face. "I'm sorry, Jo. If for nothing else, for that. It's hard sometimes, like you say. Balancing what you know is right and what feels right."

Jo opens her eyes. "Don't be. Don't be sorry. I'm sorry. I am sorry! So, so sorry."

"Fuckin' awful. Well, Sammy and I... Burnt. Too many times. You're doing..." he sighs heavily, "well, better than us, anyway. And now you know."

She shakes her head. "What's wrong with me?"

"Wrong? I don't know about wrong, Jo."

"It is wrong. It is so wicked!"

"We all have our flip sides. As many as there are sides on a die, probably. Probably more. Clearly. If demons are... are tormented souls or... whatever they are, and we're never really concious of the entirety of our soul, then... who says they are? Who says they don't have good in them, too? Maybe that's all it is. Maybe you can sense that somehow and that's the... side... you're attracted to? But you just, you just don't know that. You don't know how to... fight it."

She moans, slumping her shoulders. "Teach me, please."

"I wish I could, Jo."

"Give me something fun to do, like a life of loving you."

He frowns. "Wish I could do that, too," he says, "but..." He sighs. "You you that's not how I love you."

She sniffs, glances at Sam. "Sammy?"

"I..."

She laughs. "Kidding. I'm a jerk. Ignore the jerk. Argh!" She reaches for the door handle. "I think I'm gonna step outside, get some air."

Dean nods. That's probably a good idea, actually.

.

"Meg!" Castiel stands by her hospital bed, trying to keep the anger out of his voice though he is angry at her, very much so. "Meg, wake up!"

Her eyes flutter open and it takes a moment for her to realise where she is, for her to focus her gaze. She jerks up in bed, eyes wide in her face.

"We have to talk," Castiel tells her, and her eyes snap to his, narrowing in calculation.

"Why am I here?"

"Yes, why are you? Why don't you explain that to me, Meg?"

"What the fuck, Clarence?" she snaps. "Speak bloody English. What exactly are you accusing me of?"

"Dean says you are pregnant," he replied coolly.

She laughs harshly. "Dean! That drama queen!"

"Your chart concurs," Cas growls.

"My, my, my what? Are you hallucinating, Clarence? I don't hear anything." She threw a glance the way of the end of the bed. "Nope. Still nothing."

"It is written."

"I'm sure it is, Clarence," she tells him. "But that's just, frankly, utter trollop. Humans!" She snorts. "What would they fucking know? Shit all, Clarence, that's what. Tiddlywinks. Don't tell me you don't know what they're like."

"It is not tiddlywinks," he scowls darkly, "it is true."

She stares at him seriously for a long moment. "Are you shittin' me, Clarence?"

He grits his teeth but refrains from making comment, his eyes furious.

"Aw!" She looks down at her stomach, presses a hand there. "Hello, midget. Or should I say, abomination? Aren't you just the cutest abomination then?"

A loud crack echoes through the room with all the glaring clarity of a slap, the glass in the window cracked clean through. Meg's eyes go to the window then up to Cas's face. "You better not do that to my abomination," she tells him seriously, now clutching her stomach defensively with both hands. "It's innocent," she adds sensibly.

Castiel laughs spitefully. "I think not, demon!" he growls.

She waves a dismissive hand at him. "Oh, psh! Hush, you. You shouldn't be so dreadful. You know whose it is. Who else's is it going to be? Besides, is there any other reason I'd call it 'abomination'?"

In the blink of an eye, Castiel is standing by her bedside and slaps her across the face.

"Well I'm not smiting it merely for your benefit," she says, her tone clearly unimpressed. Hell, he could be handling this better, she knows _that_. She waves a hand in front of her. "If you don't like it, why don't you just beam yourself off to a cloud somewhere and _forget about it_? No." She shakes her head. "You are not harming a single squelchy bit of my baby. You or your up-stuckity garrison buddies!" She bares her teeth at him and growls. "You wanna try me, Clarence? Hmm? Bring it, Heaven spawn! I will take you _down_! If you want this baby gone, you'll have to _kill_ me!" She rips the drip out of her arm savagely and leaps at him, sending them both tumbling to the floor.

Outside, in the hall, "Oh, Pretty Woman" is playing.

Meg growls inhumanly and flashes her teeth, dropping her head. Faster than she can fend him off, Castiel presses his fingers to her head and her head snaps back, her eyes turning up into the top of her head. "Who are you calling 'spawn', bitch?" he growls as her eyes begin to glow white.

"Cas! No!" All of a sudden someone is there, pulling Meg away, out of his reach. Sam Winchester.

Castiel glares at him deathly.

"No," Sam repeats, not angry but sad. Confused. "No, Cas, it's a baby." He sits on the floor, holding Meg against him. He strokes her hair back from her face, smoothing a hand over her forehead. "Make love, not war," he whispers, catching Castiel's eyes. "You are not a monster. You are beautiful, inside. You have a beautiful heart. Don't let them take that from you, Cas. No. They can have a lot of things – they can even have your _life_ if they want! If they're stronger, they can just take it. But not your heart! No, not ever. Just let them try!" He sighs shakily. "Believe me, Cas, I know it can get rough. Whether you're an angel, a hairless monkey or, or a mouthy monster. And sometimes you think you can't go on. You _try_, but you just can't see any way to go. You can't go backwards, you can't go forwards. And you just want to stop." He shakes his head.

"But who cares what you want. It's what you _need_ that's important. You need to live, you need family, and you need love. And for that, you need your heart. Hold onto it. Once it's gone, it's gone. You won't be the same. You need to give it good things so it can carry you through, because it _must_ be possible. Even if you have nothing else to believe in, believe in good. If there wasn't good there wouldn't be bad, either. It's not going to save you, _you're_ going to save _you_! And you're gonna save it, too! If you believe in it, if you can save it in your heart, it's _alive_! And what have they really won then, what great victory, Castiel? The darkness was always there, they could always have it, if they wanted it. Pushing it onto the rest of us, not winning. They do what they do for their own purposes, and if they mess the rest of us up, we'll do the same thing too. We won't be the same, we won't be united. They won't really have power over us, when everything's the same. When there's nothing to stop you from taking what you want, at whatever cost. They might think they're scary now, they might think they're pretty fierce, but they don't know fierce. They don't know _heart_! I don't consider that a victory, I consider that a loss." He frowns.

"I'm not saying don't fight, but fight for the right things, the things that are gonna keep us _all_ living. We can't just wipe ourselves out out of malicious spite. We can't... we can't do that. If that was the way things were meant to go, then we wouldn't be here now, would we? I don't think so, anyway. Did I mention confusing? I digress, there isn't a word I know... I have no words..." He smiles suddenly and hums along to the song drifting in from the hall, "Can't Take My Eyes off You". "Plenty of good things still out there," he says.

Deans walks into the room and falls against the wall, moaning, hands over his ears. "It's killing me! Sammy, make it stop!"

Sam grins. "I love this song."

"I know." He stops sliding down the wall and straightens up, pointing a finger at his brother sharply. "Don't infect Cas!"

Sam wiggles his fingers in Cas's direction. "I don't think it's thought-borne," he says.

"Thank God for that," Dean mutters. "What is this, a slumber party? Why have you got Grover – I really hope that's Grover – sitting in your lap?"

"Bar fight."

"Except, in a bar, it's usually the patrons brawling, not the intoxicants," Dean points out. "No offence, Cas."

Cas gets to his feet but says nothing back.

"Argh! So that's... not Grover!" Dean concludes. "Or, it wasn't Grover when it climbed into your lap."

"There was no climbing," Sam replies. "Do you notice the state of unconsciousness?"

"You're a strange guy, Sammy. Strange, strange." Dean laughs. "Yeah, as far as jokes go, that one sucks. Sam, maybe you should get up now. That nurse is giving you the glarey eyes."

Sam smiles.

"No, no. No. I don't think that's gonna work, Sam," Dean tells him.

Sam sighs. "Okay, Grove. Up we get." He stands up, lifting Meg up off the floor and taking her back to the hospital bed.

Dean widens his eyes and makes jazz hands. "Just to _dance_ with you!" Obviously, "I'm Happy Just to Dance With You" is playing.

"You make that face now," Sam tells him.

Dean laughs, grinning. "Excuse me – just to _dance_ with you! Do I look like a dance-happy guy to you?"

"You could be, if you met the right dance-happy girl," Sam replies.

"Sam, you're doing crack." He glances at Cas. "Probably time to go," he suggests, and Castiel zaps them out of the hospital room, back to the Impala in the parking lot.

Jo sighs and pushes back off the side of the car, walking over and patting Cas's hair. "Nope, still messy." She shakes her head. "Took your sweet time," she tells Sam and Dean.

"There was music," Sam defends. "Dean even sung along."

"I am gagging right now, Sammy!" Dean replies, shaking his head in disgust. "I didn't _sing_ along, I _mocked_ along!"

"Define the difference?" Sam asks, laughing into his hand. "Your hair's fine," he tells Cas.

Jo's eyes widen and she glares at him. "If it was fine I wouldn't be touching it," she snaps. "It's not like I've got a thing for Cas. Whoa, Nelly!" She turns to Cas and raises a hand. "Don't worry, I don't. Have a thing for you. I'm..." she grins, waving her hand, "fine." She laughs.

"Covering," Deans whispers loudly. "Badly."

"Dead!" Jo whispers back. "Shortly!"

"Ooo!"

"Guys!" Sam interrupts. "Do I really have to start singing?"

"Nooo!"

Jo does a little boogie move. "Sing!"

Dean glances suspiciously at Sam. "You're sharing the crack with Jo but... _Haw!_ No. No. I don't want- Nope!" He shakes his head.

Jo drops her boogie hands and sighs. "Did I mention liquor? I _need_ liquor!"

"You don't need liquor," Dean tells her.

She leans forward and laughs. "I do, I do, I do! Get in that car and drive! I'm not waiting another second!" She spins around to grab Cas's arm and finds him gone. "Whoop! Off he goes! Funny friends you have, Dean."

"You're still crushing on him."

"I know, right. It's in-sane!" She laughs.

.

Sam jerks awake and lurches out of the hospital chair suddenly, grabbing the nearest thing at hand, which happens to be Cas. "Cas! You're here?" He sighs, toning it down with the horrified eyes. "Just... let's not start any fights, okay. Let me explain how it happened."

"Explain how what happened, Sam?" Castiel asks.

"Grove, the hospital."

"What are you talking about, Sam?"

Dean walks over with a coffee from the vending machine. "Cas. Sam."

Sam reaches for the coffee quickly, taking it out of his brother's hands.

"Ah, yeah, that was mine," Dean says, staring at him.

"You don't wanna know," Sam tells him. "Freaky, freaky dream." He shivers visibly. "I think I'm gonna need therapy for traumatising _myself_. That's so sad."

"My brother, Sam," Dean says, nodding Cas's way.

"I do not understand," Cas replies.

"I don't think _I_ want to understand, Cas, so it's all good."

Sam sighs happily, leaning his head back and smiling. "Coffee!"

Dean winces. "Sammy, embarrassing much. Let's not have a When Harry Met Sally moment now. Someone might take the wrong thing out of it and think you're having some kind of attack and approach with syringe in hand."

Sam sighs again.

"Why am I here?" Castiel asks.

"Meg, up to her usual antics," Dean replies. "We've been here practically all night, and all morning. Apparently, and tell me if you're gonna gag so I can just stop, Meg has a _boyfriend_. _Meg!_ And that's not the best part. Or," he shakes his head, "the worst..." He shrugs. "She's pregnant!"

Sam chokes on his coffee.

Dean looks over at him with a frown, then leans backwards suddenly. "Sammy?"

Sam coughs. "Yeah. Yeah, Dean. I did it." He laughs. "I feel sick."

Dean points in the direction of the toilets, taking the coffee cup off Sam and watching him pelt away. He takes a sip of coffee.

"Dean!"

"What?"

"Did you not just hear Sam say he felt sick?" Cas asks wildly.

"Ah, yeah, man, I did. But I don't think that was the coffee's fault. Sam just had a funky Sam dream."

"Are you certain?"

"Does it all the time," Dean tells him casually.

"That is unfortunate."

Dean sips his coffee and nods. "You make a good point, though. They're not usually this bad. I mean, they're Sam's dreams. He should be used to them by now, right?"

"Yes," Cas replies uncertainly.

"He should," Dean assures him. "Let's go see Meg. Get the dirt on her cutesy, wootsy boyfriend. I love Sammy, but, I mean, fingers crossed."

"I do not believe Sam and Meg to be involved," Cas replies.

"I'm with you, man!" Dean says, with conviction.

"That would be... awkward," Cas confesses.

Dean nods seriously. "Sammy, your favourite song is playing." He snickers. "Sammy, Sammy, Sammy, my Sammy. Ever the..." he laughs, "um..." bites his lip. "You should have seen the look Dad gave me when I mentioned Sonny and Cher had broken up. Argh! Do I even have to wonder where Sam gets it from?"

"Dean?"

Dean sobers up a bit at Cas's serious tone and nods, not quite able to wipe the smile off his face.

"I..." Castiel frowns, narrowing his eyes as though in concentration, "I am Meg's boyfriend."

The smile wipes off Dean's face. He slides a suspicious glance at the wall slowly, but when he looks back at Cas his expression is the same. Dean takes a sip of his coffee. "That's all I need to hear," he assures his friend. "Really, we don't need to go into the gory details." He nods. "Nice work, if you can get it. Congrats, dude. I'll just go check on Sam. You... might want to go that way."

"Thank you, Dean."

Dean walks away. "They were playing your best song, Sammy," he tells Sam, in the toilet.

Sam's shoulders drop. "What happened?"

"Sometimes I honestly wish Cas would just lie. Lie through his teeth! Yeah, he's... And Meg."

Sam sighs sadly. "Sorry, Dean. I probably bloody encouraged her, telling her all that crap I did. I really have to think before I open my mouth."

"No, I'm pretty sure it was all Cas. He was the one encouraging her. Seriously, Cas is banned from watching porn. Banned! So, don't let him watch it. And none of that MTV a little rock, a little rock mambo, either." Dean narrows his eyes. "Just in case." He glances at his mirror image. "You think the kid'll be... God, hopefully not as easy as Cas."

"Maybe they actually-"

"Sam! Don't say it! I'm still getting over the shock of the... the hooking up, having a baby thing. I literally cannot deal with anymore!" He makes a face, walking to the sink and turning on the tap to splash water on his fa-

"Sam! Sam, wake up!" Dean shakes his arm a little more, frowning at him.

Sam sits up straighter and rubs the back of his neck. They're in the Impala and it's daylight. He opens the glove compartment and takes out the little bottle of alcohol there, unscrewing the lid and knocking back a good portion of the liquor.

Dean frowns at him. "Bad dreams?"

"Something like that," Sam replies, holding the bottle away from him and frowning at it. "What is this?"

Dean shrugs. "Spirits."

Sam coughs. "It's pretty rough."

"Well, yeah, it was for me, Sam, not you. But thanks for the heads-up."

Sam shrugs and finishes off the rest of the bottle.

"Sam, drinking on an empty stomach is bad for you," Dean reprimands, physically unable _not_ to say something.

Sam scratches the back of his neck and grabs the door handle, pushing the door open and getting out. "I need a drink!"

"You've already had-" Dean gestures to the empty bottle on the car seat, leaning over to glance at Sam through the open car door. Sam slams the door and Dean gets out his side and walks around the car, crossing his arms. "Scratch what I said about drowning your sorrows in a glass, Sammy. You don't need to do that. You're not me."

"I need it," Sam tells him miserably and walks off across the parking lot, the gravel crunching loudly under his boots.

Dean winces. "Sam, hey! Sammy!"

.

Castiel frowns, glancing up at Dean apologetically when he appears in the door and see Sam lying unconscious on the floor with Meg. "I did not intend to hurt Sam," Cas tells him, trying to catch his eye.

Dean ignores him and kneels down on the floor, patting his brother's face. "Sammy?" He shoots a glance at Meg, then back up to Cas. "What did you do to her?"

"She's a demon," Castiel replies.

Dean rubs a hand over his face tiredly. "Cas!"

Cas glares at him, saying nothing, and walks over, kneeling down to place a hand on Sam's head. "He is fine," he says.

"Define 'fine', Cas?" Dean snaps. "He doesn't look fine to me."

"He will be," Cas tells him.

"And what about..." he gestures at Meg, "her?"

"She will live."

Dean sighs heavily. "You better hope so," he replies. "If she dies, her body will too, and that'll be the end of that. She's pregnant, Cas. The baby will die too. I don't like that. If it turns out it is Sammy's and it dies, so help me- You bloody better hope it doesn't come to that," he growls darkly, returning his attention to his brother. "Sam? Sam, time to wake up. Come on, Sammy." He glares at Cas. "Take us back to Bobby's. And bring Meg."

Narrowing his eyes, Cas took them back to Bobby's.

Dean takes out his phone and calls Jo, explaining that she'll have to drive the Impala back to Bobby's, and asks her to go easy, he wants them both back in one piece. He'd have walked back to town himself, but he doesn't trust Cas around Meg and he can't just leave walk off and leave Bobby to deal with it all. The only one Cas really listens to is him and he knows it.

He likes Cas. He really does. He's been a good friend to him. He just doesn't like Cas when he's acting all un-Cas. He likes the Cas who cares, not the scowly, glarey Cas he's been seeing too much of lately.

He leaves Meg on the couch and tries again to wake Sam up. When he looks around the room again, Cas is nowhere to be found.

.

When Jo wakes up in the morning, yanking the pillow from her face and hurling it across the room, she doesn't bother keeping quiet. She stomps right into the kitchen and falls over Sam, then, on the way down, falls over Meg too. It hurts when she hits the floor but she doesn't give herself a whole heck of a lot of time to think about it before she's scrambling around, leaping to her feet and stopping beside Sam, leaning down to feel if he's still breathing, if she can feel his breath on her cheek.

Just.

Damn it!

She glares at Meg and thinks about killing her now, then pushes away the thought. It probably wouldn't help Sam and it surely wouldn't help the woman whose body Meg was joyriding in. Damn it all, if Sam could just learn to keep his hands in his pockets and _not_ touch every demon he came across; he looks about as bad as the demon's meat suit, at this point. So there's some kind of link between them, she figures, hoping he's still alright in there, by some miracle, that she hasn't forced him to relive all of his old memories of rotting in Hell and generally making like Hell spawn.

Poor Sammy.

She gets to her feet and shuffles off to break the bad news to Dean and Bobby, just _knowing_ it won't go down well.

.

"What is Black doing back here again?" Dean growls, once Jo's got that part of the story out of the way. He's already got gun in hand and she feels her frustration mounting to extreme levels.

"Dean!" she calls his attention to her, stomping her foot angrily. "Sam is with her, and he's not well."

"What do you mean Sam's with her?" Dean's suddenly glaring at her. At _her_!

"I... Stuff you," she spits. "It didn't do this, Dean. He must have touched her or something, and now he's trapped in whatever shit she's trapped in. She's sick, and now so is Sam. Call Sparkles, or Mojo, or whatever the Hell it is you call him, Cas-ti-el, and tell him to over here and bring his Potions book. We need to get Sam out of that bitch's clutches ASAP. If..." She doesn't get the rest of the sentence out because Dean's already hit the door and is marching off the way of the kitchen. "Don't you dare touch either of them!" she bellows after him. "It's not safe!" And then she's flying around the door, into the hall and after him, stubbing her toe painfully in the process. The pain does nothing to stop her and she dodges Bobby quickly in the hallway and utters a breathless, "Sam's in trouble. Again!"

Bobby doesn't ask what she means because she's halfway up the corridor already, bursting into the kitchen. The look on Dean's face isn't pretty. Jo hauls herself to halt behind him and lets out a heavy breath. "Sparkles, now, Dean!"

Dean growls at her and closes his eyes, silently asking Cas for some help, and when the angel appears, merely points to his brother lying unconscious on the floor.

"Probably best not to touch," Jo tells him. "Sam touched her and now look at him. Think you can help? Dean's about a hair's breath away from doing something really bloody stupid, I can just tell by the _stupid_ look on his face."

"You're _stupid_!" Dean hisses angrily, but he probably doesn't mean it. She doesn't really mean it, after all; she's just pissed at him for being so uncontrollably big brother whenever Sam's involved. He doesn't think, he just acts. Anyone would think _he_ was Sam's dad! It pisses her off. Shit, it's not as though she doesn't get the meaning of the word 'family', she just doesn't see how 'dead' and 'rotting' really help when the monsters are after your loved ones and you're nowhere to be found. And, Hell, she doesn't have anyone she'd throw her life away for on a moments notice, and she'd been doing fine without, up 'til the point she'd died, of course. Look what her mom had done; look at her crazy antics. She'd _killed_ herself! Yeah, Jo knew she hadn't had a whole heck of choice, but she was still secretly pissed about that. She hadn't wanted her mom to die, and certainly not like that, but it had happened and now she had to let go, concede that her mother was the one who called the shots in her own life, as least as to whether she lived or died, she supposes, and no matter how much she still loves her, she can just pull up her socks and suck it up because it's frankly not up to her. If her mom wants to act all high-nosed about it and forget that there are people who actually care, then isn't that her choice?

And if Sam wants to be a damn fool, isn't it on his own head?

Apparently not, she thinks. Because Dean still takes offence, just not to Sammy's lack of foresight, to the things that Sam runs into who aren't so smart, either, if they're so stupid as to think nobody's gonna get even a little pissed when they sharpen their claws and go to town on Sammy, the idiot, stupid boy who must – _must_ – have been a healer in one of his lives because he's always touching things like it's nobody business. Unresolved issues, she thinks, from a past life. Yeah, they'll get you every time. If she believed in that sort of thing, she'd be slightly worried about history repeating itself on her own behalf, but she doesn't, at least not where it concerned herself – Sam is a different matter, altogether – so she feels unequivocally relieved. Not.

She still feels like an idiot for their having to call Cas any time something bad happens and they don't know what to do. As if it's even remotely okay to assume the angel will just because he's an _angel_, or older or some such. Yeah, right. And what of his own life, his own people? What of the civil war going on in Heaven?

He can't very well be here and there at the same time, at least, not as far as she's aware. Multi-dimensional what's-it-who's-it, or not. He's only one person... angel. And he isn't some box of chocolates, either. He's _Dean_'s guardian angel on high, or whatever, and it's not _OK_ for Dean to hand him around to all his friends just because... isn't that what angels do? Spread the love?

It's not okay.

Even if he is a friend and only does it because he doesn't want to see his friends hurt, he has other obligations. Obligations to his own kind, to his company and his work, to _himself_, to himself not to overwork himself or overextend himself in blatantly selfish, flippant directions when he has important shit to be handling in his _own_ world.

And yeah, she knows how that comes across, even in her own mind, like she's some massive bitch, and she knows it's not fun and really the humans' world is his world too, in a sense, because he's a being of the universe as they all are, but if he wants to do that he's gonna have to choose. Old life or new life. He can't go on having both, and never having enough time for either, not to mention himself.

He has to suck it up and decide.

But then, she also know he's a little resistant to listening to other people's rules, to how they think he should live his life. He was a good soldier once but now he's older and thinks he'll put his accumulated knowledge to good use and run his own show. He's a bit full of himself, even though he doesn't realise how badly he's damaging himself, putting all that on just himself the way Dean so _loves_ to do. She didn't do that. She died because she had no choice, because that's what you do when you've got a golly, gaping hole in you and you're bleeding out. Not because she wanted to, not because she even thought she'd really land herself in such serious shit where the only way out was the bad way out. Should have seen, but didn't. Overlooked it if she did. But, damn it, why does someone as old as Cas have to behave the same way, too? Who's he going to be helping when he's dead? Nobody. Not himself, not his fellow angels, not his beloved humans! Nobody. Sometimes going out swinging is _not_ noble, it's selfish. Not bad selfish, because it's not really polite to speak ill of the dead, but shit stupid selfish. Maybe the word she's looking for is 'wasteful', she thinks. Yeah, that sounds about right.

Wasteful.

And Sam and Dean are definitely that. Not everybody gets to come back to their old life just like that after they die. In fact, it is never just like that, but it's still a hell of a lot more so than anyone else has ever had. Except probably for her, she thinks, and she's not really pleased about it either. She didn't ask for this, that tool Crowley did, and what the _hell_ does _he_ think he knows about _her_ anyway? Where does he get the nerve? The sodding bastard! If they did know each other in a former life, she sincerely hopes it was as enemies and she was the one to give him his taste of beloved, longed-for glory, of an "honourable death", the freak. If she wasn't, then she thinks it's a real pity she wasn't. It would have been mildly comforting to know in a situation such as her own, even if you never really knew because you didn't remember. It's still a mildly comforting thought, all the same.

Maybe she'll even run with it, just for the hell of it... Maybe she's got to stop thinking about that loser for two seconds!

.

Later, she's sitting on the couch. Sam is sleeping somewhere that isn't on the couch and he's looking so much better but he still hasn't opened his eyes. Meg, she wasn't looking a whole lot better the last time Jo poked her head in the room to take a geezer, but it's not as though she'd care about some demon who set a pack of hungry Hell hounds after her and her loved ones to _kill_ them. She's just pretending to care, she's sure. Just playing her due part. The considerate human, what a rare commodity amongst thieves.

It's lunchtime so she walks into the kitchen to find something to eat and stops, plastering a frown to her face. "Cas?"

He lifts his head up out out of his arms and looks up from the table to meet her eye and she shrugs, slouching over.

"No need to say it, it's just one of those days," she sighs. "You just wanna get through them as quickly as possible and find something better. Still, quantity doesn't quantify quality. Sometimes we've gotta take our time to get it right, no matter how laborious or just plain torturous it is. That is why we have lives." She laughs. "I'm just being a sarcastic dummy. Lives, as opposed to a life. Well, obviously, we're alive, but sometimes what you want your life to be about and what it's really about, because shit happens and the universe happens around us, are two different things, and they don't always work together well. And, well, then there's the day job, and the bills to pay, and the partner to please. And if you're spit lucky enough to have kids – the joy! But it's all worth it, I hear.

"I mean, what else are we gonna do? Sit around being dead the whole time? No, I don't think so. When you're really dead, you don't know you're dead. You don't know much of anything, I guess, because you're not... anything... So be happy, Jo, and if not happy, suck it up and toe the line, because, remember that old adage: waste not, want not. Your life, or unlife, could suck a whole lot more than it already does. Yay for you!" She sighs.

"Sorry. I don't mean to be a downer. I know there's meant to be some shiny crap in there somewhere. Thanks for dropping by. It is appreciated, even if, yeah, 'appreciated' just sounds like the 'thank you' before the 'please'. You don't have to come. I mean, on some level it's the right thing to do, but you've got stuff going on. You came because you give a damn. That's the important thing." She sighs. "Gaw, inspiring! Now, if I can just channel you, I'll be home and hosed. Sorta down. I know, cliche. But true, fairly true. How are you doing anyway? Truthfully now. How are things?"

"I am alive," he replies dully.

"Party on, baby! Party on!"

.

Abandoning her exaggerated nonchalance, she sighs heavily. "Yeesh, I need my mom. Cas, up. Time for a hug. And don't spirit yourself off someplace, either, because then I'll just have to hug Dean and that won't be pretty. I know he's trying ridiculously hard not to... feel what he feels for me. He likes to pretend to himself it's all just so much of the same and he loves me like he loves Sammy, like a sibling, but I'm not his sister and we both know it. You know how it is, when you're comfortable with what you've already got but then your pesky feelings get in the way and start prodding at you to go after a bigger piece of the pie even though you're freakin' full and know you'll probably just chuck it all up again. But it's _sooo_ hard to resist! I... I don't feel that way about Dean. Wish I did, frankly. Shit, who knows? Maybe we could be happy together, after a fashion, if I did, but I'm not going to lie. Not for my 'bigger piece of the pie', you know. The happily ever after. I want the real thing, not just the comfy thing. No holds barred! And I don't wanna mess up someone else's real thing, either."

She smiles at him. "You're not allergic to hugs or anything, are you? 'Cause, if they're not good for you, I can refrain. I get allergies aren't always something we want to have, we just do, so if it's not okay, just say so. Just say, 'Jo, no!' That's what I always say to myself. Mind you, not always successful. Supermarket, cake, Jo, happy eyes. You know what always comes next. 'Kick my butt, girly, or quit your whinin'; know you can', and trust me, when you're talking to yourself with that degree of respect, you start to worry. But... I should probably stop talking about myself right about now and," she points to her ear, "use these for a while." She rubs her arms with her hands and walks over, stopping by his chair.

"I know it's probably the lamest thing ever even just saying this, but I'm wishing you all the best up in Heaven. All I can do from down here, I suppose. Not much consolation, but as long as you've got a wing and a prayer, your plane can still come in... Or, if you're the type who prefers a blimp, ah, who needs wings!" She laughs, punching his shoulder lightly. "All jokes aside though, wings or feelers or whatever, I don't care. If you're my friend, you're my friend. And I happen to know you are. You've always stuck by us, haven't you, pesky humans though we are? See, we make too many superficial distinctions and hold them in too high regard, down here on Earth. What colour is your skin, your eyes, your hair? How much money do you make in a year, a month, a day? What clubs are you a member of? Who's in your social circle? Can I exploit you and is that Right on, with a side order of smiles? Sort of thing. I know you're not like that. You're just... more broad-minded. We're all in the same boat here, so why not get along before someone throws someone else over the edge and spoils everybody's fun?"

She leans down and hugs him. "For better or worse, they can't say we didn't live. Can't say we didn't try, no matter how badly some of our tries were outside the line. I mean, line, what line? The only line there is is love, baby. Love, bitter-sweet love.

"I'm hungry. I'm gonna go find something to digest whilst I don't bug somebody else with my clearly supercallafragalistic, supersonic insight. Actually, truth be known, I feel a bit awkward. Not your fault, I just... _realised_, you're... you've seen some stuff, you know. Been around a while. What I'm trying to say is, I hope I don't come over as a superficial for talking to you like you're already over the hill and you've given up and all, because I know you're still... you still want to be here, fighting the good fight, as they say. I'm in no way assuming you're ready to pack it in and just dump it all. Sayonara." She waves her hand girlishly. "Then again, if you are – let's talk about it! Feel free to talk about it, is what I mean. I can really ramble on when I get going and, just stop me and say, what you want to say. I like talking. Humans, as a rule, I guess, like talking. You know, it's little wonder demons are always blab, blab, blabbing away about... whatever, you know. Bingo! Used to be humans. These pesky human again. Where haven't they been?" She sighs. "I'll just shut up and leave you to it, then," she says, wandering over to the fridge and taking out an apple and heading back out the door.

"Dean, hey! When I've finished this," she holds up the apple and twists her hand from side to side, "duct tape my mouth."

"Why?"

She sighs. "Alright, alright. I'll just be in... thatta way. Hiding out in the closet."

"Why?"

"Seriously, Dean. Stop saying 'why'. You don't want to know why. That's why. I think I just about talked Cas to death. I'd suggest you go check on him but he's probably had enough human interaction for one day. I need to get _myself_ some duct tape." She snaps her fingers. "Better yet, one of those digital recorders. I can record myself yapping on and play it back when I'm trying to go to sleep. That should drive the point home that I really need to just keep some stuff to myself. See, I'm doing it again. Anyway, now I'm slinking off slowly to lament on my wickedness alone. Don't follow me; it won't be pretty."

"Eat your apple!" Dean calls after her.

"I will, I will," she mutters. "Eventually." Her stomach gives a little pang and she pats it. "Don't hustle, don't hustle. You'll fluster me and then I'll just chuck a schiz and that'll be that. How much do you want this apple? Cool it, pal. Ow! I'm doing it already, I'm doing it already. Yeesh! Meanie. I am not a baby. You're the baby."

"Jo."

She claps a hand over her mouth, her eyes going wide. "Sorry."

"Eat your apple."

She nods silently and takes her hand away from her mouth, taking a bite out of the apple.

.

She sits down in the closet in the room she is sleeping in and crunches on her apple silently, staring at the wall as she does. She doesn't think she'd ever be able to pay anyone enough to listen to all the claptrap that comes out of her mouth so it's gonna just be up to her to strip away the clutter and get down to the heart of the matter. No matter what people say, it's not the little things, the little touches, that always make it better. Sometimes they make it worse. In her case, they definitely make it worse. Not that she's putting herself down, she just knows she needs to lay off some of this stuff and the babbling. She's been through it all a hundred, a thousand times. Going through it all again isn't going to change much, it just might mean her friends can't take it anymore and flee, and she really doesn't want that.

She wonders if she should make a list. She can start by writing down everything that's important to her, that she values and wants to keep in her life, and then she can go on to list the stuff she really doesn't need. 'Blabbing for hours on end' would probably go in the Don't Need pile. After that, she'll probably have to figure out what she can keep, and what she can't, and what to do about the stuff she can keep but doesn't want.

She narrows her eyes at the wall and smiles. Yep, she's making a game plan. Jo Harvelle, making a game plan. Bet you thought you'd never make it through the years to see that one, did you, wall? Well you did! Party on! Party on!

* * *

><p><strong>(Long) Author's Note (not <em>really<em> about the story, just stuff in general):**

I think _I_ was taking something when I wrote this chapter. Can frozen Coke do that to you? *shrugs* Anyhow, feedback's always appreciated. If you don't like, do you think I should rewrite? Up to you. I'm something of a pessimist but a lazy pessimist. I'll always be thinking maybe I should rewrite something a bit better but then just giving up and letting it go. *sighs* Peace. Over and out...

BTW: I have had dreams that freaked the bejeezus out of me and made me never want to go back to sleep again. It's real, it can happen. But you get over it, I guess. I think I'm gonna slink off and go do that thing I'm supposed to be doing now. Too lazy for my own good, I swear. Keep mentioning, never do anything to change it. Not a good policy. There's only so many times you can bring something up, hoping something will change in your mindset, something will click, before your friends all want to kick you out for being too much. Sometimes you've gotta take action. This is me, then, I guess, taking action... Tootles, and happy day.

BTW – The Remake: Canon: I _suck_ at! (Not being down on myself, merely truthful. That's probably my super human-skills shining through. I have trouble getting other humans, but more than even, myself. My subconscious and my concious mind, do not collaborate. Like ever. Even when I _get_ out the door. Will make an Action Plan to get myself together one day... procrastinator me. *laughs* No, I swear! *stoically* Seriously. Action... Plan! Gotta love those...)

Why the random shipper thrown in the middle of things there last chapter? Avoidance, I think. I have avoidance issues. Big avoidance issues. I'm always writing when I should be doing something else. Avoidance. That said, I should probably try to work on that. I also have the habit of suddenly disenfranchising myself from my fics and just stuff in general, my family and friends, too, and then I just can't make myself interested again. But it's different with people than with my fanfics, I just feel separate from them – the people, yeah – even though I know that's just a conceptual thing in my mind, as is the opposite, I guess, just as much. But it's irritating when people are reading something and they're all so nice with the nice reviews and then I'm just... blah, and my mind goes blank and moves onto the next it thing, whatever that may be.

Anyway, venting isn't cute, so bye. Much love and :)'s.


	6. Chapter 6

When she wakes, Meg finds herself holed up in Singer's panic room. She feels frankly like death warmed up, and that's no small exaggeration either, but what she feels is of little consequence to the fact that Dean is pissed. Beyond pissed. Her one advocate in this stinking, rotten place is incommunicado and it's because of her, and worse yet, she hasn't a clue what to do about it, how to fix it. She's awake, but Sam's still out for the count. She figures she's in trouble. And lots of it.

Her afternoon consists of pain, trying to hold her tongue because of, and playing it cool. She fairly well fails on the last two points, but the pain part works out fairly well, all in all. She's plum sick of hearing her meat suit scream but that's not something she can control, not when Dean won't control himself. He's still labouring under the mislaid impression that she knows jack shit about what's going on with Sammy, and she can't tell him she doesn't know diddly because she has a good mind to suspect he might just kill her and be done with her then.

She doesn't see Castiel around but she knows he's there somewhere, lurking in the shadows as he so likes to do, or merely feels compelled to out of a mixture of shyness, awkwardness or just plain feeling misplaced in this very human world. She keeps telling herself he's around someplace, he wouldn't want to miss out on seeing this, on knowing just how thoroughly stupid he'd been to fall for her con the same way Sam fell for Ruby's. She tells herself it's better like this, she was the biggest fool of them all and now it's only fitting she sits tight and bloody well takes her punishment. She's not overly concerned about the whole sin thing, or the whole getting her just desserts, but she has a feeling it's better this way. Better for Clarence, anyway.

She's not trying to be a martyr to her cause, she just hates feeling like those Winchesters, like she's tried to mutilate him in some way by trying to impress her shit on him, like the fact that she'd very much have liked him to care, to give just a little damn about her. Now that she's here, in this room, listening to herself scream and the nice effect the room has of amplifying the sound and bouncing it around to varying degrees of musicality, she sees that she has been indescribably despicable, and there's no excuse for her actions, for thinking she could somehow bend the rules and lie to herself and the angel both. She'd been telling herself for a while now that just because they were fighting to the death didn't mean they couldn't take a break every once in a while and seek some much needed reprieve, but they're not humans and she sees that now, sees how the battle should have been all the solace she needed, should have been her impetus to go on, to be strong, brave, courageous.

She is weak, the fact is as simple and as inescapably obvious as that, but the worst part is, she's messing up the game for the others too, she's setting a bad, bad example. Though they're on the opposite sides of this campaign, she can't help feeling bad for Castiel, though she's not so sure he feels anything at all for her. She knows she should be proud of herself for messing things up this badly and getting away with it up 'til now, but she's a soldier and she can have respect for the fact that he is too. She should have acted better, upheld some of that respect. If a soldier's world is a topsy-turvy of prowess versus valour, then where is hers? Where is her honour, her respect for the art? Does she honestly _deserve_ to be a soldier the way she's behaved? Because there's a difference between playing dirty and playing dirty, but when she did it for no apparent strategic goal but for her own enjoyment, she's got to deserve a slap across the face for that. Playing coy little girl when she should be fighting, when she should be inspiring her enemy to bloodthirsty rage, to the shaky edge of glory and right over the side to their sad, sorry demise – anything but having a bloody Kit-Kat break!

So she's going to take this pain and she's going to live it up. She's going to prove she has what it takes to fight and still be a soldier. She's going to prove she can withstand enemy fire and come out the other end battle-scarred but not beaten, not soft in the head. She has to redeem herself. It's the only way. If Lucifer caught wind of her little antics, he'll be more pissed than even Winchester can pull off. It's all about the fight for him. And if she's getting about incapacitating the enemy in the head, then where's the fight in that? They might end up winning, but what for? The victory will never be as sweet, lording it over the few surviving members of the opposition will somehow seem _petty_, and this war, this fight for _justice_ – not just for Lucifer and his troops on the other side of the fence, but for all – was never meant to be turned into some petty little game, is anything _but_, and in twisting it into something less in her mind, she has committed an unforgivable act of treachery.

The humans, in all likelihood, wouldn't understand if she _spelled_ it out for them, letter by painstaking letter, but she knows her sins and they're not just shortfallings, their wickednesses that can never, _never_ be repented. She can't take it back now, only live with it, move past it, into a clearer, righter future. So that's what she does.

Hand back the arsenal, there you go, I'll just scratch that flower off first, now we can get back to the good stuff, to actually _doing_ our jobs, so let's.

In _her_ world, her society, you get slack and you die, you don't just step in for a pedicure one day and step out the next feeling all shiny and brand new, and she's the foulest of the foulest _abomination_ for even _trying_! She puts her entire society to shame and laughs about it to its face. What is she even still doing alive?

She almost wishes Winchester will kill her, but that's not really right. It should be one of her own, she realises. Dying by Winchester's hand would be a mercy she doesn't deserve, would allow her brethren to believe she'd gone down fighting the good fight when she'd stabbed them in the back and twisted and still, for all that, met her sticky end. Thrown it _all_ away for nothing.

Hell, even Dean Winchester deserves better than that. If he knew the depth of her corruption, if he had an ounce of sense, the silly, funny human, he'd be throwing her to the Hell hounds and washing his hands of her faster than she could say Me monster, you human. She _is_ a monster! A worse monster than any there's ever been – a monster to her own kind, her very way of life and the _art_ of war.

She feels sick and the pain has nothing on that. Nothing!

Slowly, the gaping abyss that is her eternal shame at the depth of the corruption and depravity she'd brought willingly into her own house, invited right through the door with a smile and a playful bat of her eyelashes – her own personal Hell, as the humans would say – opens up and swallows her whole, not kicking or screaming in the least, and this is the way it goes, the way it always goes in the very, very end.

It is silent, like a void in space. She's lost the right to scream, to protest, to even breathe! She messed up and now she's got to take the forfeit, however harsh, and the forfeit is just it all. She has to take it, because it's the last _dignity_ she has left.

Her screams fade away into nothingness, the pain is too much feeling she doesn't deserve, and she barely even has it in her to think: I'm going mad, I really am. Here it is, here's what it looks like, up close and personal. Are you happy _now_, Meg?

One last push and she's over the edge.

Nothing touches her any more, and yet it all still does.

.

When they call Crowley, it's only because they're at their wits end. Nothing Cas does seem to has any effect, Meg is playing catatonic, and Dean has decided, at long last, he wants to make a deal. Bobby tried talking him out of it, but it's been six whole days and Dean can't take it anymore. Cas can't even tell him what's wrong, _where_ Sam is, and if he can't have _anything_, he'd rather be dead. He has no idea, no idea even if Sam has a chance of fighting against this thing, if he's even still in there. Cas says it appears as though he is, but Dean's not taking Cas's word for anything, at this point. How can Cas _not_ know what's going on? How long has he been fighting these Hell spawn? How many countless centuries, how many _millennia_?

Nobody breathes a word when Bobby is summoning the demon – except Bobby, of course – and Dean begrudgingly allows Bobby to explain the situation to Crowley in his place. Bobby doesn't trust him not to give away just how desperate he is, at this point, and he'd rather Dean come out with something in this deal than nothing at all.

When they take him to see Sam, Crowley merely makes a face and turns to Bobby. "She did this? Well, you got me. I've ne-" He cuts himself short, clapping his hands together all let's-get-down-to-business-shall-we like, and starts again by saying, "I'll need some time to think, of course." Nobody is fooled, though. They all know what he'd been about to say before he'd seen just how _stupid_ that would be and made a hasty about-turn, hoping to backtrack just a little, and it only speaks all the more of the serious trouble they're in when even a demon doesn't know what's going on with a fellow demon's demonic mojo.

Normally, Dean would laugh, but the thought just doesn't occur to him. Cas looks angry, so Dean decides to take a walk and take him with him. He figures Cas wants to smack Crowley over the face and good, and he can empathise, but that won't be solving matters any and Cas's whole look is reminding himself too much of himself being pissed at Cas for not knowing anything that it's killing him. He feels the sudden urge to apologise but he just can't find a way to do so without making Cas feel even worse for not knowing, so he does the next best thing: he helps Cas out by stopping him from thoroughly shaming himself in front of the enemy and showing the demon just how desperate he truly _is_.

Cas deserves better than that, in his books, and he's the one who instigated this whole thing, calling Crowley up here to make a deal, if not diagnose the cause – because demons rarely give away that when they can wrangle a deal out of it, instead. They'd play up something as simple as a paper cut if they could, and still do it with a smile and a skip in their step. It's just the way they are, Dean supposes, and it surprises him that Crowley would mess up as badly as he has already but apparently even he was stumped and it must have smacked about some of his street smarts along with.

The thought occurs to him that Crowley might just be playing it up in effort to win a larger piece of the pie in any deal Dean made with him, but somehow Dean doesn't buy it, even if the thought had been his own. Something is very off here and he knows it. Heck, even _Meg_ knows it, even if she's not willing to say so, or unable to say so.

He's terrified, in honesty. Terrified that Meg has screwed them all over and holds all the cards, even still, even though she's not saying anything, even though Cas can't offer any suggestions as to how to get her to talk, in or out of her meat suit.

The walk doesn't really help, but at least it gets him out of the house, at least it gives him some air to breathe, and his head starts to slowly clear, the gears turning ever so slowly once again. Maybe Crowley could get Meg to talk; to tell them who she's working for and what her end game is. If he was him, he'd want to know, Dean thinks. Meg had been working for him for quite a while before she'd revealed her true colours, after all; before she'd shown her true allegiances. Only now he's starting to think that was all just a lie, too. A clever deception to buy some time.

Maybe he _can_ win Crowley to their side for a short while, at least. He has to at least try, for Sammy's sake.

.

"Are you joking?" Crowley has a distinctly unimpressed look on his face which Dean doesn't find very funny at all. "This is _unbelievable_!" He glares at Castiel but Cas isn't saying boo. "Well," Crowley scowls, gesturing to Meg with a sweep of his hand, "you know what's wrong with her. How do you expect me to get anything out of her when she's all... like she is?"

"All like _what_?" Dean growls, stepping in for Cas.

"Like that!"

Bobby clears his throat to catch Crowley's attention. "Would help if you'd give us a little something to go on, you know. We don't speak demon, in case you were wondering. You can pull as many dumb faces as you want and we'll still be shaking our heads wondering what in the name of tarnation you're gettin' at. Lay it down for us plainer – what's wrong with her, exactly?"

Crowley stares at him as though he's beyond unfathomable, then looks at Cas, who merely narrows his eyes in a silent hate-filled glare. Crowley gives up on him and looks around the room, but nobody seems to be saying anything and it doesn't seem to be pleasing him much, either.

Jo steps out of the doorway, arms crossed, and tosses her head Meg's way. "Spit it out, Crowley. We didn't go to demon preschool. _Strangely_, neither did Cas. Bobby's not kidding – we haven't the faintest freaking clue what's wrong with her?"

"Are you all-" He shakes his head. "She's bloody out of it, that's what she is! Gone in the head." He snaps his fingers. "What is it you humans call it?"

"Snap, Crackle and Pop," Dean mocks. "Rudolph the-"

"Dementia!" Crowley cuts in. "She's demented." He laughs, as though something about that is funny to him, and rubs his shoulder, the grin slipping away. "Actually, honestly this time."

"What, she's messed up her meat suit on purpose?"

"No, you dill! She's messed up her demon suit! Honestly, what is it with you lot today? It's like you're- Are you doing this to get a rise out of me or are you honestly this dim? Hmm? What say the humans?"

Dean doesn't bother covering up his angry growl but steps closer and glares at him darkly. "Can you fix it or not?" he hisses.

Crowley laughs. "Are you kidding me, boy? Fix it? You must be bloody out of your m-" He shakes his head, too bloody amused to go on. He drops the amused act and glares at Dean. "No, love, I cannot _fix_ it! Can your lot fix it? Mmm?" He throws Dean a look of utter disgust. "I think not!"

Scowling, Dean turns to look at Cas.

"You're lying, demon."

"You're an idiot, sweetheart."

Cas lunges at him abruptly, eyes full of dark rage, and Crowley backs up so fast he nearly knocks Jo over when he smacks into her. "You're mad!" he tells Cas. "Plain mad. Stay away from me, angel. Back the Hell off! What did you expect? That we were impervious to all charms? It's all fine and dandy to smite us but, noooo, we _never_ get sick days!" He laughs.

"Why?"

Crowley snaps his gaze to Dean's. "Come again, lad?"

"Why? Why is she... sick?"

"What do I look like?" Crowley scowls. "Her bloody _Dear Diary_!" His chest heaves unsteadily, as though the whole situation is getting to be too much for him. "How should I fucking know?"

"You are a demon," Cas hisses, with decidedly menacing eyes.

"Unfortunately, I'm not a sodding genius!" Crowley bites back. "I don't know everything, alright! Who the bloody Hell does! Oh, don't you answer that. Don't. You know very well what I mean. There can be any number of reasons why and I'm no psychic, so, no, I _don't_ know why. Comprendre vous?"

"This is just great!" Dean runs a hand over his hair, shaking his head, and sighs heavily. He glances back at Crowley. "Is it contagious?"

"Ha, ha," Crowley snaps. When he catches the meaningful gleam in Dean's eye, he backs away slightly. "No, it's not contagious," he growls. "As far as I know, anyway."

"You care to put that theory to the test, just in case?" Dean asks, all falsely friendly.

"No. No, I wouldn't."

Dean takes his gun out and points it at him. His eyes flash threateningly, doing nothing for his charm. "Do it anyway!" he growls, knowing full well Crowley knows it's not just any gun he's holding, but _the_ gun. The Colt.

"Asshole!" Crowley mutters darkly and walks over to Meg. He stares at Bobby for a moment, throwing him a dirty look – Thanks, pal, for getting me into this jolly mess – before turning his gaze back to Meg and placing at hand on her forehead.

Nothing.

"Satisfied?" he asks, irritatedly.

Dean smiles back at him. "Kiss her!"

"Don't be ridiculous!"

The smile wipes off Dean's face and he scowls. "Do I look ridiculous to you?" he spits.

"Honestly, just-"

"I said 'kiss her'!"

Crowley glares at him angrily and looks back down at Meg, totally silent. He stares at her for a long moment, tilting her head back slowly. She doesn't twitch. Mentally shaking off his reluctance and tossing it to the corner – he can either die or do this small thing – Crowley leans down and kisses her.

Nothing happens. She doesn't suddenly come to and wallop him one over the mouth; she doesn't glare and let off a stream of cuss words in half a dozen different languages. Nothing.

He beats a hasty retreat, pulling his lips off of hers, not liking the feelings she gives off when he touches her, but forces himself to try again, settling a hand on her forehead and closing his eyes. Just out of reach of his grasp, he senses a minuscule something, a tiny, tiny flicker, and edges closer cautiously. He wants answers just as much as Dean does, he realises then. He doesn't know what's up or down around here and he doesn't like it. What if Dean's right and it's catching? What if it spreads? Where will that leave him and his followers, his soldiers? He has to get to the bottom of this, the sooner the better.

The flicker disappears, then reappears weaker, farther from his reach. He scowls inwardly and steps after it, then strides towards it.

It darts away at incredible speed but he's quicker, reaching out with his preternatural senses and grasping onto it tightly. For one small heartbeat, he thinks he's won, he's finally going to have his answers, and then it explodes in a searching, blinding flash of golden light, bringing a whole house of pain falling down on his head with it.

He can't help it, he screams.

Dean winces and makes a sudden move forward, before Cas's hand on his arm wrenches him back.

"He can't help, Sam," Cas growls under his breath. "He's useless to us. Let him suffer!"

Dean whips his face around and stares at him with something close to confusion and horror. "You can't seriously mean that? Cas!"

Castiel holds his gaze unflinchingly. "I mean it, Dean," he says. Whilst he's waiting for Dean to say something back, he misses what's going on around him and doesn't see when Jo rushes past and throws holy water in the demon's face.

The screaming stops, replaced by a sizzling, hissing sound. Jo stands glaring at Crowley. "Nice try," she spits, "but I don't think so."

"I wasn't trying anything," he bites back angrily, "I was-" He snaps and shouts at her, "I was trying to fix her, like _he_ said!" He points furiously at Dean for one second, his hand shaking uncontrollably, and glares at Jo.

She tosses her head. "My bad! Carry on!"

"You've got to be fucking kidding me!"

"As you so rightly pointed out," she says, "he's the one with the gun and, oh, right, you're _not_!" Her eyes harden to rock-solid and she plants a hand on her hip. "As you were," she hisses in a low voice.

Dean pulls his arm from Cas's grasp and strides over, raising the gun and aiming it steadily at the demon's head. "I wouldn't argue with her if I were you," he says coldly.

Crowley turns back to Meg sorely, just knowing he's going to regret it.

.

The world is a never-ending, burning pit of golden flames, and then it isn't. The flames shudder and start to change, some of them growing, some of them shrinking until they're no longer flames but a forest, but a forest unlike any he's ever seen before, a forest of crystal and oddly shifting lights, pulsing as they float wave-like through the air, sometimes massing together, sometimes drifting apart again. Around him, slow, winding filaments push up through the surface of the ground, growing up to the midnight, star-studded sky, but somehow the stars don't look right. The filaments sway and twist, and then suddenly freeze, a sound like a cross between breaking glass and water chiming on water seizing the surrounding clearing and its great, crystal giants. The glowing lights floating idly about come to a standstill and dim, as if waiting, and the filaments shatter, not a second later, and break into a thousand tiny pieces, sending sparks flying like strands of glowing hair, some twisting madly, some merely fluttering down to curl upon the hard, dark ground and die.

A slow, low hum begins, gradually building up louder, higher in pitch, hurting his ears. He flinches away from the sound, covering his ears with his hands, and peers around, squinting at the crystal closest to him that is now breaking apart on the surface, strange molten bubbles of crystal rippling under its hard skin and ripping open, bright white light bursting from the gaping wounds and bizarre golden liquid that rises up into the night in a shower of tiny droplets.

The crystal shudders as if it were a dog shaking off water and the forest is suddenly silent. The quiet rings in his ears and he slowly lowers his hands to his sides once more, never once taking his eyes from the crystal, from the hundreds upon hundreds of gaping wounds no longer spilling white light. And then the wounds blink at him.

"Run!" The girl, though she can't be more than nine, clasps his hand tightly and tugs with all her might, pulling him away, back from the crystal giant that is slowly waking up.

He doesn't argue, he runs.

.

He gasps, badly out of breath and in need of oxygen, but the girl isn't even breathing heavily. She peers into his face perplexedly and asks, "What were you doing there?" and it's clear by her tone that she thinks he's done something wrong, broken some forbidden law.

It is only then, when he's catching his breath, that he takes in her ashen appearance, more grey than sickly, and her slender, too long fingers. She's not quite right, for a human girl. "I was... I was taking a walk, wasn't I? To clear my head," he lies quickly.

The girl frowns. "In the forbidden sector?" she queries dubiously.

He shrugs a shoulder. "I figured it'd be peaceful."

She mutters something he can't quite make sense of, another language perhaps, the words strangely reminding him of the glowing lights in the forest, and that crystal creature, whatever it was, drifting between quiet and loud between heartbeats. The sound isn't pleasant on the ears. At least, not for him. He winces.

"What star are you from?" the girl asks. "You look..." She makes another of those strange sounds, frowning in concentration, and he nods before she has the chance to question him further.

"That's right," he says.

A strange thing happens then. The little girl shudders and bristles burst out from her skin, and then she is changing, rearranging, like smoke on the wind, and suddenly he finds a rather normal, rather average woman standing before him, possibly in her middle twenties, possibly even her early thirties. She curls her hands around one another, pressing them to her chest, between her bosom, as if clutching at a favourite trinket she wears around her neck, but there is no trinket and no necklace. "How did you come to be here? This is not your world. You are far from home, strange traveller."

"I could say the same about you," he replies, though he's not entirely sure what she is. Human, alien, he hasn't a blinked clue.

"You're not part of our crew," she goes on suspiciously. "Where is your vessel?"

He has the urge to reply back, 'I'm standing in it', but holds his tongue and merely shrugs. "Wouldn't know; don't remember. Where's yours?"

The strange, barren outcrop of dark, splintered rock they're standing upon disappears faster than he can register that it's gone and they're standing in an ordinary room, dressed drably in grey and jazzed up with the odd plainly boring piece of this and that, he's not quite sure what because he's still reeling from the changing scenery. It takes a moment – an embarrassingly long moment, in fact – to realise where he is, that he's standing in a bleeding _spaceship_!

The woman isn't standing, though, she's kneeling on the floor, her face blotchy and pale, apparently in severe pain.

"What? What's wrong?" He gets down and takes a better look at her.

"We're not supposed to enter the hidden sector without first following the proper protocols, you idiot!" she gasps.

He figures it's a pretty stupid question but asks anyway. "Then why did you?"

"To save your stupid skin, you fool!" she growls, tears pouring down her face profusely.

He frowns, then figures he should say something. "Thanks."

She laughs darkly, amusement sparkling in her dark eyes for the briefest of moments before a shudder of pain rips through her, smashing it utterly to pieces. She jerks forward, a hand coming out and pressing flatly to the floor, her tears splashing quietly against the floor.

He begins to ask, "What was...?" but breaks off, not sure it's a good time to speak.

The woman's head snaps up, eyes full of agony.

She's looking at him so he figures he should make it snappy, in case she's going to die or something like that. "What was that thing?"

"Don't you _know_?" Even in agonising pain, she sounds annoyed. "What were you doing out there if it wasn't looking for one of them?" She gasps and jerks, her eyes rolling in her head wildly.

He gets a hold of her arms, relieved when nothing really sinister happens.

Her eyes roll back to their normal place and she glares at him. "Are you a trawler or not?"

"I'm sorry, I'm going to have to say 'not'."

She groans and collapses to the floor, her shoulders slipping from his gasp as her whole body is taken over by a horrible, juddering fit.

He stands up and backs away, leaving her to it, trying not to listen to the awful, tiny sounds she's making. He looks about the room, deciding that it's probably _her_ room. Her cabin, or whatever she'd call it. It's plain and sparse and drop dead boring. Not in the least homely. There are no pictures of loved ones anywhere on the walls, no pictures at all. Nothing to give any indication of where she's from, Earth or otherwise. Nothing to tell him what she does, either.

He takes a seat on her bed and thinks about what she'd said, about her question. She'd asked if he was a trawler, if he'd been in that forest looking for that strange, sinister many-eyed thing made of crystal. She'd appeared out of nowhere to rescue him and then they'd run, and they'd somehow flashed back to here, though he'd never been here before. Why should he have? This wasn't even real, was it? It was just... imaginary...

He snaps out of his thoughts, watching her seizing uncontrollably. As he watches, she goes still, and he frowns, wondering if that's it, she's gone, dead. So much for answers, he thinks. She stays like that, deathly still on the floor, and he starts to worry. Why is he still here? Why hasn't he... gone somewhere else, he supposes. Back to the forest, perhaps?

That's when he sees it, the small splodge of gold colouring her dull, two-shades-darker mousy brown hair. To the casual observer, it would just look like paint, glimmering slightly in the room's too white lighting, but he knows what it is exactly, and it's not paint.

It's blood.

He shudders, and that's when the lights go out, casting the room in complete and utter darkness... except for the tiny glimmer of blood clinging to her hair. He can't believe he didn't pick up on it before, the strange way the light had been behaving, but now it makes sense why it's dark. The lights somehow respond to her mood, or something like that.

The glimmering blood twinkles and shifts suddenly, gliding along a strand of hair then disappearing.

The lights come back on, jarringly white. The brightness strings his eyes, making him squint, and then the woman on the floor gasps and her eyes fly open, wide, wide, wide, and he's falling, falling, falling...

And lands in Jo's arms, nearly knocking her to the floor – again! – before she gets a good hold of him and he snaps back to reality and gets a hold of himself, deducing that he's back on Earth, back in the room he'd probably never really left, at Singer's.

He shrugs Jo off and straightens up, an unappreciative expression on his face. As if he wouldn't rather have gone for six on the floor than have her touch him! She's messed up his suit now with her messy, little human hands. He glares at her and straightens his clothes. "Oh, no. No, no. I'm not doing that again!" he growls. "Never again! That lassie is all kinds of messed up. Seven bloody ways to Sunday, I'll have you know." He drags in a shuddery breath, pointing at Meg accusingly. "She's off her rocker insane!"

"I thought you were going to fix her," Dean growls, in a low voice.

"Fix her? _Fix her?_" Crowley laughs slightly hysterically, and then he can't stop laughing.

"Hey!"

He catches Jo's angry gaze and sobers a little, with some measurement of force on his part. He can see she's ready to fling the holy water she's holding in his face again and decides he's had enough of that crap for one day. "I don't know. I don't know what's up or down or..." he giggles, "around with that lass." He claps a hand over his mouth, giggling some more. "W-we were on a spaceship – a _spaceship_!" he laughs. "And- and she asked if, if I- If I was," he can't help it, he giggles again, "a trawler. I guess she meant... Was I-" He remembers the crystal creature and the horrible noise it had made, remembers her lying dead on the floor and how its blood had brought her back to life, and suddenly he can't think why he ever found any of it amusing in the first place. He takes his hand away from his mouth and runs it over his face. "Look, she's obviously nine kinds of wacky minus the Happy Meal, what's it even matter? She's off in her own little world. Why not just leave her be?"

"And what about _Sam_?" Dean growls. "We're just supposed to... to let it go and leave him to rot? No! NO! YOU-" He sucks in a deep breath and shoves the gun at Cas, turning away to collect himself.

Jo glares at Crowley. "On this spaceship, then," she growls, "she was part of some kind of..." she blinks, looking for the right word, "salvage operation?"

"Aye, perhaps."

"Sal-salvaging what? Exactly?"

He throws his hands up, shrugging. "I dunno. Lost treasure."

She throws him another glare and crosses her arms. "Treasure?"

"Or possibly spooky shite," he amends.

"What?" she snaps.

He resists the sudden urge to brush a stray bit of hair out of her face and shrugs. "Jewels, diamonds, the whole..." He gestures a hand in the air. All of it.

"In space, you numb-nut?"

"Hell, yes, in space? Why not in space?"

She stares at him as though he's another kind of stupid and sighs, dropping the look and just staring at him. "Right, so these jewels and shit, they belonged to some aliens, right?"

"I dunno."

"You're so stupid!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Stupid! Did you see any aliens or not?"

"N- No! No. I didn't see any frickin' aliens, okay. Stupid."

"Bite me!"

"Oh, are you offering?"

She glares at him frostily.

He sighs. "No, there were no aliens that I was aware of. No aliens, no Gabriel, no ominous blue police box. Happy now? There was a creepy little girl, at one point, but then she turned into dead Meg, or undead Meg. Other than that, there was a whole planet of creepy! Except, we weren't really on Planet Creepy, we were on Meg's _spaceship_. You with me so far? So, she's going on about some forbidden sector, or hidden sector- doesn't matter, and then- she kaplonk, falls over, twitches a bit, and dies. Let's all break out the bubbly and celebrate. Yes, yes, how very exciting. But... she doesn't stay dead. She has this... alien frickin' paint on her and it revives her somehow, and then- Bam! I'm back here. And there's no more! Done, finished; show's over, folks!"

Jo widens her eyes and shakes her head, seemingly unhappy with his excellent storytelling skills. "Where did the paint come from? Planet Creepy?"

"Well, yeah."

"Regular or all-weather?"

He snickers. "Actually, I have a sneaking suspicion it was blood," he tells her conversationally. "Monster blood, maybe. It was an odd colour for blood, I have to say." He frowns suddenly, pressing a hand to his head. "There was this God-awful noise!"

"Before or after she staked the monster?" Jo asks.

"Hmm? No. No. She didn't... She came to get me, that's all. I... But I wasn't really there. If this is one of her memories, I wasn't really there. I didn't wake it up; it just... woke itself up. Or the spaceship did, somehow... No. No, can't have. The spaceship's hidden from it, the same way it's hidden from the spaceship. Hidden sector, right. Maybe a... another dimension." He catches Jo's eye suddenly, snapping his fingers. "Okay. Okay, here's a theory. Meg, in Megland, is a... a pirate... on a spaceship." He drums his fingers on his leg, lost in thought for a moment. "Hold up, Nelly. What if she wasn't looking for treasure? What if she was looking for _the truth_?"

"What?" Jo stares at him weirdly.

"Alien intelligence."

"Okay. Here we are again, back to aliens. She's looking for aliens and then what...? She finds one? The engines on the spaceship have some weird hum that interrupts its sleep cycle and draws it out of hibernation which... is bad for it... because it starts bleeding and... maybe it growls at her... and that's kinda scary so she hotfoots it back to her own dimension and hopes like crazy it doesn't follow her, but..." Her eyes light up and she says, sort of breathlessly, "It has a special defence-mechanism it can use against potential threats, yes! That's why it made that funky noise! It's some kind of hyper sonic frequency that disrupts molecules or molecular cohesion or some..." the enthusiasm drains from her voice suddenly and she growls, "utter bullshit!"

Crowley frowns, leaning back a bit and nodding. "Right. Crazy. Crazy talk. But, ah, I like your spin on things."

"Take a hike, loser! What _really_ happened?"

"I already told you what honestly, really happened. Is it my fault she's gaudy out of her mind? Are you seriously gonna blame _me_ for that one?"

"Just try me!" Jo growls.

He holds up his hands in surrender. "Hold up, hold up. So... No, you know what, you wee blighter! I didn't make her the way she is! It's not my fault! That's bloody well the truth of it, and I am not making things up. I told you what I know, what I got from that crazy," he points sharply to Meg, "and I'm not sayin' another damn word about it." He holds up a finger, glaring at her with wide eyes. "Not _one_!"

"Why'd the alien bring her back to life then?" Jo asks, ignoring what he'd just said. "Remorse? What, it suddenly realised love's a two-way street? That if she can pick its brains, it can pick hers right back? Ooo, lookie here what we have? Aliens! Aliens in a freakin' spaceship? Oh-la, ain't that magical and wonderful and teddy bears and fucking _rainbows_!" She blinks harshly. "Why did it bring her back to life, nut-job?"

"Why don't you ask the nut-job over there?"

"Unfortunately, I can't do that," she sneers sweetly, tilting her head to the side. "She's kinda," she points a finger at her head, "kaput!"

He laughs quietly, inching closer to her. "Actually, she's better now."

Jo whips around and stares at Meg, along with Dean and Bobby, but Cas keeps his eyes on Crowley who is pretending he's not there though he's not really fooling anybody hiding behind Jo.

Meg lurches forward and throws up all over her feet and the floor.

Jo backs away in disgust and smacks into Crowley and trips and the both of them end up in a sprawling heap on the floor. "I hate demons!" she moans tearfully, finally having had enough of all the crazy crap and on top of it all, banging her elbow on the floor.

Bobby inches towards Meg cautiously and that's when she lifts her head and catches his eyes, grinning at him shiftily. "Take me to your leader."

.

Dean grabs the gun out of Cas's hands roughly and stalks over to the chair Meg is tied to and shoves it in her face, pressing it to the front of her head. "Cut the crap, bitch! What did you do to Sam?"

She laughs eerily, twisting her head to the side. "Well ain't you just the cutest little Earthling now, Dean! So _cuuute_! But aggressive, I must say. Mmm-mm-mm. You know what they say, Dean. Diamonds are a girls best friend – not a gun in her face, you pathetic, sorry bastard! I didn't touch Sam! And you-" She glares past Dean, at Crowley. "You keep your filthy paws off me in future, you freak!"

"Glad to be of assistance," he tells her, putting on a show of false cheerfulness.

She laughs. "Just you wait, Crowley. When I get my hands on you...!" She deliberately leaves the rest of that thought hanging, laughing some more, and sweeps her eyes up to Dean's. "Before you go waving that thing in my face, why don't you go check on baby brother, you stupid, _stupid_ boy! You! You humans. The lot of you. You make me sick!"

Dean turns away from her coldly and hands the gun back to Cas. "If she twitches, waste the bitch!"

Meg laughs pathetically behind his back.

He walks out and doesn't look back.

.

"Sam? Sam? Sammy?" Dean pats his brother's face, peering down at him anxiously from where he's sitting on the side on the mattress.

Sam opens his eyes suddenly and smacks a hand over his mouth, looking like he's going to be sick.

Dean jumps to his feet and helps him get up. He ignores the heavy thumping of his heart because he's so, so freaking glad his brother's okay. So glad he's _awake_!

He walks with Sam to the bathroom and leaves him to throw up in some privacy, going to the kitchen to get a glass of water and bring it back in case he's thirsty.

.

When Sam is feeling marginally better, he leaves him sitting on the couch in the living room and returns to where Bobby, Jo and Cas are waiting for him. "Sam's awake," he growls, stepping through the door and stopping beside Cas, holding out his hand for the gun. Cas passes him the Colt and Dean sighs. "Where's Crowley?"

"Made for the hills," Bobby says, walking over and shaking his head at Meg. "What are we gonna do with her?"

Dean glances at her and scowls. "She's not going anywhere," he tells Bobby, nodding to Jo and heading for the door. Jo and Bobby follow him out but he stops Cas at the door. "No, you can stay. Question her about the aliens." Cas looks annoyed at that but Dean turns his hand up and shrugs. "Or not," he adds. "It's up to you. I'll be back in an hour. If there's anything you two want to share before I blow her brains out, you won't get a better time."

Meg laughs in the background.

Dean glances at his watch, then back up at Cas. "It's up to you," he repeats, and turns and walks out.

"Go to Hell, you smarmy bastard!" Meg screams after him.

Dean only smiles, not even bothering to turn back around. "You first, bitch!" he mutters, too quietly for her to hear, then stops and turns back around, grinning. "By the way," he tells her, "you look like shit! Come to think of it, that's probably a good, clean half of the reason Crowley wasn't too thrilled kissing you. But I bet you just loved it, didn't you, you evil bitch!" He laughs and walks out, leaving her to think about that.

.

She stares at Cas, trying to find something sympathetic in his eyes, but he only meets her eyes with cold indifference that turns her insides to ice.

"Why are you looking at me like that, bitch?" he spits, choosing Dean's favourite nickname for her. "You think, just because we had a few indiscretions, I might possibly consider sparing your pathetic, blasphemous life?" He bends down to untie her, then looks up into her face. After a moment, he looks disappointed. "You're not even going to try? Beg just a little bit?" He sighs. "What am I still doing here, then?"

She stares at him silently, then suddenly, she stands up, reaching a hand up to touch his face, but he steps back, safely out of her reach on the other side of the devil's trap. A tear slides down her face silently and she sinks to her knees.

He kneels down in front of her, gazing into her eyes intently. "I don't hear anything," he whispers.

She chokes on a sob and laughs sadly. "Can't you read my mind, Clarence?"

"Even if it were possible," he tells her distastefully, "it would not be desirable."

She brushes away a tear that runs down her cheek and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, trying for a little smile. "Can I have a goodbye kiss, please?" she asks steadily and her voice doesn't even wobble. Only in her mind, in her heart.

"Pardon?" he says, his gaze – those beautiful, expressive eyes that she loves – nothing but cold calculation.

She won't degrade herself by begging, but it's only polite to ask. "Please, Castiel. Please can I have one last kiss before I go?" She gazes into his cold eyes for another long moment and finally catches a glimmer of feeling.

He grabs a handful of her hair and yanks her head back sharply, melding his mouth to her own.

.

Jo closes the door behind her and rubs her elbow, climbing down the steps and heading out around the side of the house. She's glad Sam is okay now. The fresh air is refreshing, being away from those four walls is refreshing. Out here, under the clear, blue sky, warm light touching her hair, the claustrophobia eases off a bit.

She stops by an old, rusty car and leans back against the door, closing her eyes and tipping her face up to feel the sunlight on her cheeks. A soft breeze ruffles her hair and she smiles quietly, more content than she's been in a while.

The breeze dies down and she opens her eyes.

"Howdy there, ma'am," Crowley greets, standing beside her casually, not in the least bothered by the rustiness of the car he's leaning back against.

She grabs his arm and pushes him away, annoyed that he's standing in the way of her soothing breeze. He catches her arm and looks into her eyes. "How's your arm?"

"How's yours?" she growls, pushing away from the car and putting all her strength into pushing him back, away from her.

He doesn't budge and her elbow twinges painfully. Her arm goes weak and she smacks into him. He puts his arms around her to steady her. "You make quite the fierce impression, little lioness."

"Go away!" she grouses.

He pulls her closer and holds her against him, taking the opportunity to press his face into her hair. "But you smell so good, little lioness."

She snickers with barely concealed sarcasm.

He pulls back to look into her face. "Do you mean to say you've discovered the counter-curse to my fervid charm?"

"I don't know what that means," she replies indifferently.

He grins, more than happy to educate her this time, and whispers in a low voice, "Impassioned."

"There you go again with the strange words," she sighs.

He chuckles at her strange humour, wondering if she truly means to give him the brush-off or if she's just playing a little game with him. "Shall I go?" he asks.

"Please!"

The annoyance in her voice is bordering on contempt and he decides that she's not playing some little game, she's not joking. Whatever inexplicable magic attracted her to him before is stone, cold dead. He's too late because his luck has run out. He isn't upset. A little sad, but not upset. He'd always figured it would come to this, had always hoped it would, ever since he'd been able to admit that he cared, just a little bit, he'd hoped she'd lose interest in him and find somebody new, somebody who could really care.

They'd met just a little too late.

The breeze blows hair into her mouth but she makes no move to push it away, to clear her vision.

He releases her from his arms and steps back.

She tightens her jaw and tries her hardest not to glare.

If he'd thought it was hard letting her go, it's even harder to walk away. His chest feels too tight and he can't bring himself to tear his gaze from hers. The gravel crunches under his shoes, reminding him that he's still here, that he should already be gone. The sunlight catches her eyes and brings out the warmth in them, lending them a soft, easy glow, even when she's trying incredibly hard to be unfeeling, to be steadfast and lend him no illusions that might lead him into unwanted desires that would stay his hand, that would break his resolve.

There's no reason he can't do this, he tells himself, but he can't pull himself from her shimmering gaze, can't deny that he finds it wholly endearing.

She sweeps the unruly hair from her face and tucks it behind an ear, but it quickly falls back into her eyes again, softly swishing against her cheeks in a way that makes him long it were his lips instead, kissing her.

He can't help smiling at the thought and decides it's definitely time for him to go, before he loses his nerve and gets himself into an even bigger mess than he's already in, but just then, Jo chooses that moment to rush forward and seize his arm.

"You idiot!" she chides, though she hardly means it. The sting of her words, if there'd ever meant to be any, is offset by the affection and not altogether soft concern colouring her tone, her hands clutching his arm just that bit tightly.

She lets go of his arm and throws her arms around him, resting her head against his shoulder. "There's a pretty girl involved and you lose all sense. I'm not a dummy, I know you can watch where you're walking, you simply refuse! You're too awful!"

"My apologies," he replies casually. Ah, so that's why she came dashing over, he thinks. She forgets that he's not not like her, that he can quite easily heal himself should he chance to take a tumble and muss up his meat suit a trifle. She's too adorable. She's killing him. Even when she calls him awful it sounds like something heart-warming.

If he thought Meg was mad, he's changing his tune now. Meg has nothing on this thing he has going on. He has to pull himself together. The girl doesn't need any more scars than she already has and he certainly doesn't need a healer for his. He's a demon, for goodness sakes! He's _supposed_ to be a bit unbalanced. Only, in his world, he doesn't use that word, doesn't corroborate the same notion to what he is, what he does. That is _her_ word, a human word. Everything is different, in their different worlds. Even their words are different, their very concepts of wrong and right, of acceptable and objectionable. He can learn her words, he can even learn to play the games of her people, but he must know inside that it's not really who he is, and he does, he has, up 'til now, up 'til the moment he held her in his arms.

He takes her arms and gently extricates them from around him, gently lifts her chin and meets her sunny eyes. The sun has gone out of them now and they're miserable. "What is it?" he asks, can do nothing to stop himself from asking.

"I don't want you to go," she whispers harshly, and he can't quite follow the tone of resentment in her voice. Is she silently blaming him, or herself?

"You can't stop me, you know," he tells her, hoping she'll cheer up a little at that, maybe she'll see it's he who is to blame and not herself, but she only pulls back and drops her chin, glaring at the ground.

"I know," she whispers, "and I thought it didn't matter. I thought what I felt for you was only desire but it's not... It's not..." Her voice is bitter and feels like poison, making his chest ache for her. "I can expend my desire with anyone..."

He can't resist touching her cheek.

She snaps his hand away, a scowl marring her features. "I don't want to let you go," she hisses. "You're a part of my heart. You're not just some name in a book. I can't scrub you out. I try and try and every time I think I've finally succeeded, I've finally gotten over you, I go to sleep and wake up screaming because I miss you so much it hurts." She kicks his shoe angrily. "I don't even want to... I just want to _hold_ you! It's insane!"

"Sure sounds like it," he agrees. "Hey, Jo."

She sniffs.

"Look at me, sweetheart."

She slowly raises her face, meeting his eyes with tears in her own eyes.

"We can fix this," he tells her. "I promise you, we can fix this."

"How?" The miserableness in her voice feels like broken glass, cutting into his skin.

He did this to her and now he must fix it. She's only a _child_. She deserves so much more. "We'll make a pact."

She stiffens, wary of that idea.

"Not that sort of pact, dear. Just between the two of us. Mmm?"

She frowns, stepping closer to peer into his eyes as if to seek out the truth there. "What sort of pact?" she asks finally. "How can you stop someone being in love with someone?"

He has the awful urge to cry. She's in _love_ with you, you monster! He doesn't know how that can be, but what would he know? Only _she_ can know if what she's saying holds truth or not. He picks up her hands and holds onto them, staring down at them. Anything to distract himself from her sad, but so very beautiful eyes. "The answer is simple, sweetheart," he says. "You simply fall in love with somebody new."

She laughs and the sound is indescribably painful, utterly hopeless. She doesn't believe she could ever do that.

He looks up into her eyes, clutching her hands tighter in his own. "It's not so hard, you see," he tells her. "Loving someone and being _in love with someone_ are two very different things. One of them invariably involves sexual desire and the other does not. I suppose all you have to do is find someone who makes you feel that pull of desire and go from there."

"I'm not sure about that," she says unhappily. "It seems like an awfully simplistic take on things."

"I can't see the world quite as you do, sweetheart. I'm a demon. All I can do is estimate and approximate meanings. Our concept of love is not the same as yours."

Her eyes harden a touch as she takes in his words and she raises her chin, a challenging air to her gaze now. "What's in it for you?"

"Beg pardon?"

"Why are you helping me, if you don't give a damn about me?"

He smiles roguishly. "I wouldn't say 'no' to one last rendezvous."

She snorts, smacks his arm. "I'm not in the mood. I think the mood's gone off me."

"Gone off you?" His expression is scandalised, his eyes roaming from her eyes to her toes, very much liking what they see, then, somewhat reluctantly, back up again. "No. No, that's not possible," he assures her. Just _looking_ at her is making him ache with sinful delight. Despite all of his promises to himself, he'd very much like to have her.

She shakes her head, wincing. She presses a hand to her chest. "I don't feel what you feel!"

"That is a damn shame," he agrees, giving the matter some thought. He smiles slowly and shoots a quick glance over his shoulder. He offers her his hand and waits for her to place her hand in his, which, reluctantly, she does. He lowers his voice and whispers, "Come with me!" and he leads her further into the graveyard of lonesome, superannuated cars in varying states of disuse and disrepair.

Her trust in him is scary and heartbreaking in one – he thinks of her poor mother, Ellen, worrying about her baby girl going off to fight the bad, bad monsters, of the terrible pain she must have felt knowing she couldn't protect her baby any longer and it was time for her baby to start protecting herself, and the terrible pride and love mixed in with the pain – and, at the same time, it's just so damn warming. He can't even let himself think about it because soon it'll be gone and it will never, never come again. Not without her. When they are far enough away from the house, he lets go of her hand and stops.

Her hand returns to her side and she starts to frown, but by then he's shrugging out of his jacket and his fingers are shakily undoing button after button on his shirt. He sways his hips, trying to get the essence of the thing right, and hopes she takes that he means to be sexy, to do a little strip tease for her.

Her hand comes up to her mouth and she laughs quietly, her eyes coming back to life by leaps and bounds.

His smile becomes a grin, watching her eyes dance and sparkle, and he thinks maybe everything's going to be alright for her after all. Maybe he'll put this thing right after all, and she'll be able to put the same kind of trust in someone else, find the same kind of feeling with someone else. Maybe she'll be able to fall in love with somebody new.

She shakes her head at his silliness and breaks into happy giggles, her eyes beautifully bright.

When she comes into his arms and kisses him so very tenderly, he gets chills. When she glides hot, little hands over his chest and deepens the kiss, he breaks out in a sweat. He can't help thinking this girl is going to be the death of him and somehow he just doesn't care. He can't back away now. When she breaks the kiss and flashes him a seductive smile, she leaves him burning for more, and when she leads him back with her towards one of the old cars and gasps beautifully softly when he lifts her off her feet, he knows he'd go to Hell and back just to see her shine the way she is now. When she wraps her gorgeous legs around him possessively and arches against him, it's all he can do not to press a kiss to her ear and whisper that he loves her too.

.

Dean sighs heavily and stands up, setting his unfinished beer down and walking back to the panic room. He'd told Cas an hour so an hour it's going to have to be. He glances down at his watch as he's slowly making his way along the hall and sees that the hour's up. He picks up the pace.

When he walks into the room, he sees that Cas is sitting in the corner and Meg is sitting on the floor, crying quietly to herself. He frowns and directs his question at Cas, "What's going on?"

Castiel scowls angrily. "That demon is with child," he growls disgustedly.

Meg cries harder and wraps her arms around her middle, hugging herself.

Dean tries to catch Cas's eyes but he's too busy glowering at Meg, so Dean turns and walks over to her, instead. "Is that true?" he asks.

She refuses to look at him and starts to rock back and forth.

Dean kneels down and grabs her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. Her face is wet with tears and he finds touching her uncomfortable.

"I didn't mean to do it," she sobs. "I didn't mean it."

He frowns at the fresh bruise colouring her cheek and lets go of her face. "What happened to your face, Meg?"

She shakes her head, her eyes frantic with tears, but offers no explanation.

"The demon tricked me!" Castiel growls furiously, from Dean's shoulder, and Dean nearly falls onto Meg in fright.

God!, Cas still hasn't grasped the concept of giving a person a little warning. Dean doesn't like the tone in Cas's voice, either. Thinking on it, Dean doesn't like a whole lot about any of it. And what did Cas mean when he said Meg had tricked _him_? Argh.

He turns away from the both of them, unable to look at either of them. "Oh, this is just classy! Real classy!" He puts a hand to his head. "Cas, what the fuck?"

"She tricked me?" Cas scowls angrily.

Dean shakes his head. "Cas, look at her! She's a demon! She's not some sweet little babysitter! How could you _let_ yourself be tricked by her?"

That seems to set Cas back for a moment, and he frowns. He looks at Dean suddenly, desperately. "I don't know!"

Dean rolls his eyes to the top of his head and growls. Why? For God sake, why? He glares at Meg. "What the fuck, Meg! You _get_ this shit. Why lead him on?"

She bursts into tears again.

"Oh, come on!" he grouses. He moans and glances at Cas. "She didn't trick you, Cas, she just wanted a piece of," he slaps Cas's arm, "this."

Cas frowns and eyes his arm dubiously, then glares at it. He looks back to Dean, clearly confused.

"You get her hot!" Dean tells him painfully, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. He can't believe he has to explain this stuff to Cas.

"I know," Cas replies. "She g-"

Dean clamps his hands over his ears, scrunching up his face. "Don't say any more!"

"Are you alright, Dean?" Cas asks.

Dean shakes his head silently. Not frickin' alright!

Cas sighs. He's sure Dean's has something to say to him because he looks in terrible pain, but Cas lets it go. When Dean wants to tell him what's wrong, he will. "You cannot kill her, Dean," he says. "It would not be right."

Dean nods mutely and gets to his feet.

"Dean?"

Dean finally lowers his hands from his ears and winces. "Cas," he reaches over to grab his friend's hand, "come with me. We need to talk."

"Of course, Dean," Cas replies.

Dean drags Cas out of the room after him and prepares himself for a whole lot more embarrassment to come.

.

"You can't say Meg tricked you into it, Cas, because then she could just say you were the one tricking her. Do you understand?"

Cas nods. "No. I did not trick her, Dean."

"You didn't mean to trick her. Shit, maybe you didn't _know_ you were tricking her, but you-"

"I did not trick her!"

"Then how can she have tricked you, Cas? How?"

Cas makes a face, breathing heavily in upset.

Dean nods. "Shit happens, Cas. You have to-" He rubs a hand across his forehead. "You have to take precautionary measures so things like this don't happen. You're, you're in that vessel now, Cas, and she's in... in her meat suit. Your vessel, her meat suit, both human. What did you think was going to happen when you put one and one together?"

Cas frowns. "I don't know," he says earnestly.

Dean moans, smacking the front of his head lightly. "A baby happens, Cas!"

"No. I did not-"

"You didn't ask for a baby?" Dean asks, barely holding back the annoyance and frustration from his tone.

"Yes."

"Yeah, well, Cas, that's not how things work here. People don't sit down and write to Santa and ask for him to make them a baby and send it on over with love. They don't pray to God and God emails them back and says, 'I'll get right on it.' They can make their _own_ babies. It's just biology."

Cas frowns at him seriously and Dean huffs. "Seriously, Cas, look it up on Wikipedia if you don't believe me."

Bobby walks over and drops a heavy book on the coffee table. He taps a finger on the front of the book and walks out again.

Dean nods. "Read the book, Cas. You'll be glad you did." He grabs his beer and takes a swig.

Cas frowns at the book and reads the title. He picks it up and opens to the front page.

"Look it up in the table of contents," Dean tells him.

"I know how to read a book, Dean," Cas replies.

"Yeah, well... good." Dean takes another swig of beer.

Sam sits down on the floor quietly, putting the bowl of chips down on the coffee table, and takes a couple of chips, popping one into his mouth. "Where's Jo?" he whispers.

Dean shakes his head and slaps Cas's hand when he reaches for a chip. "Read first, eat later!" he growls.

Cas stares at Sam.

"Dean."

Dean growls at him too, but leans back in his seat and glares at the window.

Sam waves a hand in the direction of the bowl.

Jo comes crashing into the room and bustles over to the coffee table and sits down on the edge, frowning at the book Cas isn't reading. "What are we researching?" she asks, taking a chip and crunching on it.

"Not we, Cas," Dean growls, his arms crossed over his chest.

"What's Cas researching."

"Biology," Cas tells her.

"Sounds good," she says, and takes another chip. "These are nice."

"Dean is mad at me," he says.

Jo frowns. "Why?"

"Meg is with child."

"Yeah, but, Cas, that isn't your fault."

"It's nobody fault!" Dean snaps. "It's an honest oversight."

Jo shakes her head. "What?"

"Meg and I-" Cas begins, but Dean leans forward and grabs a chip and throws it at him angrily.

"I see," Jo replies. "Dean's just bashful, Cas. No big deal. And Dean, don't play with your food. And don't throw it at other people."

"I'm not bashful!" Dean growls. "I'm pissed! We have a chance to gank that bitch and Cas has to fuck it up for us. Literally! _Fuck_ it!"

Jo throws a chip at him. "Don't be so crude, Dean!"

"Alright!" Sam yells. "Just-! All of you, stop tossing the chips at each other or I'll take them back to the kitchen."

Dean grabs the bowl and stalks out.

"Jerk!" Jo yells after him, and sighs heavily. "That's a good book," she tells Cas. "Don't listen to Dean, he just hates Meg. He's not really mad at you, he's mad at her. And maybe just a bit, he's mad at himself."

"Why is he angry with himself? Has he done something bad?"

"He hates Meg, Cas. He hates the idea of her using you for her own benefit. He feels bad for- He didn't think you'd go for Meg, you know. Anyone else is okay, but not Meg."

"Because she is the enemy," Cas replies, with narrowed eyes. He nods. "You know, Jo, it's just sex."

Jo coughs and nods. "Yeah," she says awkwardly. "I know. I get it. Dean's a jerk. He's the one who's always encouraging you."

"I am not angry at Dean. It was fun."

"I hope so," Jo replies.

"If you're not mad then why'd you hit her?" Dean growls from the door.

"I did not strike her," Castiel tells him. "I merely rescinded my assistance. She did not tell me how she acquired the bruise."

"No, if you healed it for her then it was healed," Dean replies darkly. "You didn't give it back to her; it was already gone. You might as well have hit her."

"I did not hit her."

"Keep telling yourself that," Dean mutters, stepping back from the door. "And I don't hate Meg. I fucking hate her!" He turns on the spot and stalks away.

"He's in a happy mood," Jo says.

Sam nods silently.

The room is silent for many long moments until Cas yelps and throws the book away from him, shuffling quickly to the other side of the couch and eyeing the book with wide, terrified eyes.

"Cas, are you okay?" Jo asks.

He doesn't meet her eyes but whispers, "No."

"Why? What's wrong?"

He whimpers and finally looks at her. "This is Jimmy's body," he tells her quietly. "I feel as though I have betrayed him by using his body for such a purpose."

She walks over and pats his hand. "It's okay, Cas. You haven't betrayed Jimmy."

"What about that woman?" Cas whispers.

"The woman Meg's wearing?"

He nods silently.

"That's on Meg, Cas. Meg's the one wearing her."

Cas winces painfully and stares at his lap. "How will I tell Amelia?"

"Who?"

"Jimmy's wife," Cas breathes. "The child will be Jimmy's and that other woman's. How will I tell Amelia her husband and another woman..." He makes a small sound in his throat and falls silent.

Jo picks up his hand and rubs it between both of her own hands consolingly. "It'll be okay," she tells him.

"Claire will have a sibling," Cas whispers, tears welling in his eyes. "A baby belongs with its family. How can the baby be with its family when its parents are dead? How can it be with Amelia and Claire when it's another woman's baby?"

"Jimmy is dead, Cas, but the woman Meg's wearing..." Jo frowns. She sighs heavily. "Let's just cross that bridge when we come to it," she says finally, nodding.

Cas doesn't nod back.

"Oh boy," Jo sighs and lets him have his hand back.

"Jimmy would not have cheated on Amelia, Jo!" Cas tells her. "Amelia will be upset. She will be angry at Jimmy and she will be angry at the baby, even though they cannot defend themselves. Jimmy cannot apologise and ask her to forgive him and give him another chance to show her that he was wrong in treating her with such disregard and is sorry and he still loves her."

Jo nods with wide eyes. "Jimmy's dead, Cas."

"I know he's dead," Cas replies miserably. "But the baby is still his and it will still be Claire's family."

"I'm sure Amelia's an understanding person," Jo tries to comfort him, though, judging by Cas's anguished expression, it doesn't look as though her words have any affect.

"The truth is important, Jo," Cas says quietly. "Amelia should know the truth. Claire should know the truth. The baby should be with Claire. They will be siblings."

"But Amelia's an understanding person, remember?"

"I am not sure she will be understanding enough," Cas replies. "Would you be understanding if you were in her place?"

Jo shrugs. "I don't know, Cas. I'd like to think so, but I honestly don't know."

"She will be angry at me for abusing Jimmy's body."

Jo chokes. "Alright, Cas, enough! It's your body now."

"It was Jimmy's first!"

Jo jumps to her feet and walks away. "I'm going to find Dean," she mutters and storms out.

Cas stares at Sam.

Sam gets up and walks over and leans down to give him a hug. "Cas, it's your baby, okay. Yours and Meg's. I don't know how that's going to work out, but it's not Jimmy's baby. I swear to you. Jimmy is dead and as sad as that is, Jimmy knew what he was getting himself into when he signed up to be your vessel. You explained it all to him and he was understanding. He wouldn't be mad at you, Cas. You shouldn't be mad at yourself, either. You didn't abuse Jimmy's body; it's your body now, remember. It's your choice what you want to do with it, Cas, and if you want to have sex with someone and they want the same thing, then nobody is abusing anyone. You're not married, Cas. You're not cheating on anyone. You're not married are you?"

"No."

Sam waves a hand. "There you go. It was fun, right, and neither of you were under the impression that it was anything more than that, a little fun. There's nothing wrong with that, Cas. You're worrying about something you don't need to be worrying about. Meg's the one we should be worrying about. She does like to throw a spanner in the works every opportunity she gets – and then there's the punchline, she'd happily see us rot in Hell or just plain die. Is she going to look after this baby properly or what? Does she even _want_ it? And you are right about the woman she's possessing, she'll obviously still be the baby's biological moth-"

"She is dead."

Sam frowns.

"She sold her soul to Crowley. If Meg leaves that body now, it will die. The baby will die, also."

"So she did make a deal with him?"

"Yes, Sam, she did."

"What was the deal? What'd she get out of it? You said she's dead. She obviously didn't get her body back, and she didn't get a whole lot of time on the side, either. That seems a little off, to me."

"She wanted Meg and I to..." he frowns, "get together. I do not know why. Meg has not explained that side of the story and I have not asked her. Truthfully, I was not interested, at the time. I... had other interests on my mind."

"You can't do anything about her being dead, Cas. She's dead. You said so yourself."

"I could have refused to help Meg. Then, when the woman's body died, her soul would have gone to Heaven."

"But then Meg would have died, too, wouldn't she?"

"Yes." He frowns. "It would have been... better."

"No. No, it would have been good in one way and bad in another. You like Meg, don't you? However wrong you think it is, you still like her. Don't you?"

"I... cannot say."

"No, Grove didn't ask Meg to come along and possess her. She didn't volunteer to be of service. But it happened. We can't undo the past. It happened, and she decided to make that deal with Crowley. It's not as though we had the chance to exorcise Meg with that spell of Crowley's stuffing everything up. What could we do? We had no way of saving her, and then she dug a big hole and threw herself into it. Sorry, Grove, but that isn't our fault. Not saying I'd have done it differently, I'm just saying, to you, Cas, it's not our fault. And just because you're an angel and your people and Meg's people are at war, doesn't make it your fault. It makes it another _great_ reason not to have wars in the first place. Not your fault. Well, there, see, it is Meg's baby after all. Grove's not going to be around to look after it, poor thing."

"Who is Grove?" Cas asks.

"Right. Well, we don't know the name of the woman Meg's wearing so I just decided I'd call her Grover. Grove. Stupid, I know. I should have chosen something else. Lauren or Dawn or something. I dunno, for some reason Grover came to mind first. Feel a bit better now?"

"No."

"Do you want to go talk to Meg?"

"No."

"You want a beer?"

"No."

"Okay, well, I'll tell Dean you said 'bye'."

Cas stands up and goes to pick up the book, placing it back down on the coffee table. "I will talk to Meg. I do not particularly want to, but I will."

"Hey, great!"

"I am not so convinced," Cas replies, and walks out.

Sam sits down on the couch and sighs. "Happy families, Sammy. Happy families. Yup!"

* * *

><p><strong>I have alien issues, it's true. Gah!<strong>


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